30 Days of Writing Baird Edition
by YourLovelyMajesty
Summary: 30 prompts, 30 snapshots of Baird's life. Rated T for mild language. Beginning. Accusation. Restless. Snowflake. Haze. Flame. Formal. Companion. Move. Silver. Prepared. Knowledge. Denial. Wind. Order. Thanks. Look. Summer. Transformation. Tremble. Sunset. Mad. Thousand. Outside. Winter. Diamond. Letters. Promise. Simple. Future.
1. Beginning

Beginning

The fascination started at his grandfather's house. When the magistrate and his wife were truly annoyed with Damon, he was forced to take a trip to his grandfather's estate on the eastern end of Tollen. He didn't always argue but there were times Damon wanted to spend time with his parents more; Grandfather just retold stories of his time in the Pendulum Wars or ignored Damon for the TV.

It was during this time that Damon had the chance to explore, unaccompanied and uninhibited by the servants. He didn't care about the grand hallways or cherry oak balustrades and colonnades or even the sprawling murals on the walls. He could see it all in his own home. What intrigued him was the old cars in the garage. They were from the Era of Silence where everything was grandiose and intricate. The first time he saw them he could only imagine the effort that went into crafting such articulate pieces.

Damon happily left the estate to cross the short distance outside-naming the bird calls and trees along the way-to see these old machines. Grandfather said they ran on steam, long before imulsion was converted for fuel. No matter how much Damon wanted to ride in one, Grandfather refused to power them up; he thought they might explode. Damon wasn't worried. In fact, now that they were effectively antiques, he knew he could do whatever he wanted with them. Grandfather was too old and crippled from the war to leave the comfort of the house. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

The idea of playing with machines, of getting covered in grease and making a mess, was exhilarating. The Baird family was old money; he was trained to be quiet, always in control, and never raise his voice. Arguments were carried in quiet tones with raised eyebrows, never fully showing their anger or disappointment. He had never yelled at anyone, he had never put a toe out of line, and most of all, he had never had the chance to get dirty. Elinor Baird liked her world neat and tidy. If Damon had even a small piece of lint visible, Mother's lips became a thin line and her eyes zeroes in on the offending anomaly until Damon plucked it. Now was his chance to fight against his upbringing. His one small act of rebellion.

He grinned as he stepped up to the covered car. Grandfather kept the cars tarped because these models were manufactured without roofs. He ran his hand over the smooth material and then grabbed the edge and pulled it off with a flimsy flourish.

The wheels were large and thin. How did it even support such a large body? The windows were thick sheets of glass; add that to the weight of a full metal composition and it was a wonder the car ever moved. The hood was long and cylindrical. Grandfather opened the hood once and that was enough to make Damon salivate. He had always been interested in machinery but the obsession hadn't begun until he saw the twisting pipes so neat and compact under a thin sheet of metal. He had to know how it worked.

Damon jumped over the door and sat behind the wheel. The two rows of seats were plush benches. He could almost imagine himself driving this thing, but it was so clunky. He preferred the sleek machines of today. Not just cars but everything; as the years went on, machinery had become compact and usable for all people. Even in a recession people weren't afraid to empty their wallets for a good device, maybe even a new car.

He bent below the wheel and found a tangle of wires. He pulled the thin flashlight he'd been carrying out of his back pocket, shining it into the mess. From here the engine looked rusted. He sneered. He should have been expecting this from a car that ran on water.

Climbing out the cab, Damon walked to the front and pulled open the hood, propping it open with a wooden beam. Grandfather had organized his tools along the far wall, a relic from his days before his service. Damon wasn't sure which one would easily take apart the car-he wasn't even sure how to start-but that was the fun of discovery. He grabbed whatever looked useful and stood in front of the car. He rolled up his sleeves with a grin and prepared to dig in. Whatever happened, Grandfather wouldn't be using them anymore.


	2. Snowflake

Snowflake

"You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else." - Tyler Durden, _Fight Club_

* * *

Marcus Fenix is the kind of guy you only hear stories about. Frigging war hero, willing to do anything to save just one more life, always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders but never complaining about it; he even manages to get the job done with a cool head and in a timely manner.

I used to hate guys like him.

Funny, because back in the day, my old man would've killed to make sure I hung around a guy like Marcus. Hell, maybe if we'd been in Jacinto, Marcus would be my little buddy by now. I'd be following him around like a little sheep, just like Dom.

"A man is only as useful as his contacts," my dad always said. And the Fenix name is a powerful contact to have in your arsenal. But men like Marcus are all the same; he just happens to be a special case because his dad scorched half of Sera.

It's an old money thing. You stand around and look important and people automatically respect you. No arguments, no trials, just instant gratification. The first time I observed Marcus around people, I thought he would throw that weight around like the others. A convict automatically promoted to sergeant had to have someone pulling strings, right? But no, I had him pegged all wrong. It was just Marcus being, well, Marcus fucking Fenix. He has something about him that people just respect; they don't question him because of his honest nature. They get out of his way without realizing he's about to jump into the fire for them.

It pisses me off. I'd tried being the nice guy once, so why couldn't I get the same respect?

Maybe I'm a little jealous.

As a kid, the only thing I wanted was a normal childhood. I wanted to play in the dirt and go for picnics with my parents while living my own life. Unfortunately, my parents were the kind that treated kids as pets-easy to control, only useful when needed. Yeah, we weren't the kind of family to have long talks about our feelings.

I just wanted to make my folks proud. I was top in my class not because of their pushing, but because I thought it would make them smile. My decision to become an engineer was supposed to make them proud. It was a respectable career and would showcase my skills, proving that the Bairds were more than just pencil pushing socialites.

But no. I was never good enough for my parents.

There are times I look at Marcus and know we come from similar worlds. And by that I don't mean my nut-job father unleashed a satellite laser on Sera, but that we're old money. Once upon a time, we both had a legacy attached to our names. But that's probably where the similarities end.

He probably got a pat on the head when he got perfect scores on his tests. He probably enjoyed ice cream and movie night with his parents. Hell, maybe even his dad told him he was proud of all the work Marcus did. Old Man Fenix probably said, "Go ahead and do whatever you want with your life, Marcus. You're such a good boy. I wouldn't ever dream of trying to control you. You make me proud, son."

Not me. I was labeled the disgrace of the Baird fortune. The one that wouldn't support the war effort, the one who always failed to meet expectations no matter how hard he tried. The little black sheep in the pure field of bleating relatives.

I know I'm nothing special. I'm just a grunt, an expendable piece of equipment for the COG. Marcus, although an outsider, is more than that. He's something special and everyone knows it; shit, they absolutely eat it up. Even trying to copy that soulless stare couldn't help me now.

I will always just be Damon Baird. The disappointment. The useless bastard. No one special, no matter what I do.


	3. Thanks

Thanks

"Hey, Mr. Gear?"

I assume the boy's talking to Cole. People on Vectes still thought he was The Cole Train, the greatest thing to ever happen to Thrashball. They can't believe he joined the army despite watching him in action during the Stranded raids.

Cole's walking a few paces ahead of me. It was a routine patrol; showmanship for Pelruan until the brass decides what to do with the Stranded presence. But Cole doesn't stop. That's when I feel the soft tug on my belt.

"Mr. Gear?"

I stop and look down at the gap-toothed kid. Anyone else and I would've slapped their hands, but this kid couldn't have been more than six or seven. Was he a local's kid or a refugee's? What do you even say to a child? I spent eleven years of my life being one yet I have no idea how to interact with him.

"What do you need?" I ask. There, that didn't sound too intimidating.

"Um." He shuffles his feet and I can tell he has something behind his back. Don't tell me he wants something autographed-that was Cole's territory, not mine.

Cole circles back around to watch. It's not every day Damon Baird is cornered by a kid. He stops by my shoulder, places his rifle in the sling on his back, and crouches with a smile. Yeah, Cole's way better with kids. I would never bring myself to a child's level.

"What's up, little man?"

The kid's shell shocked. "Y-you're Cole Train, right?"

Cole chuckles. "That's right. You ever get to see me play?"

"No, but Dad is your biggest fan. He says if you could beat the Sharks, you can beat anything."

"Well tell your daddy that Cole Train thanks him for his confidence. We're doing everything we can to protect you but sometimes you gotta listen to us better, okay?"

I shift my Lancer to rest against my shoulder. This whole exchange's too uncomfortable for me. "Can we hurry up? The perimeter won't protect itself."

Cole turns to grimace at me but he knows I don't have the patience for kids. Not to mention we're on duty and I didn't want Hoffman breathing down my neck for an attack I could've prevented.

"Sorry, Mr. Gear," the boy says. He pulls a lumpy parcel from behind his back and thrusts it at me. Cole was on his level, so why is the kid offering it to me?

I stare down at him, unsure what he's trying to do. "What?"

He shakes the parcel. "Momma says you guys work too hard not to have sweets. She made these for you."

Cole nods as he stands and I grab the parcel. The kid grins and takes off before I have a chance to thank him. He probably just left me with a bundle of ugly cloth or rock candy. Cole rubs his hands together with excitement.

"What did the nice boy give you, baby?"

Against my better judgment-I should shove the parcel into my belt and ignore it, get back to the job at hand-I undo the knot on top and the fabric falls to reveal gold.

"Holy shit! Are those real?" Cole gaps. "No way, I gotta be dreaming!"

Six chocolate chip cookies are nestled in the palm of my hand. Suddenly I feel like frigging Prescott with the world in my hands and maybe I sorta believe some of that "Have hope" bullshit he'd been dishing out. Of course the locals could make this stuff-they're farmers, they've been doing it for years-but staring at the partially melted chips, I can't remember the last time I saw a real cookie. It's been gruel and ration bars for years. Adjusting to a real diet of meat and vegetables on Vectes was enough of a shock to my body.

This was too much.

"I feel like they should be under sealed glass," I say. Shit, I'm actually numb from shock. "Can we frame them? Hang them in the mess?"

"I wish we could share them with everyone . . . but maybe that lady makes cookies for everyone patrolling over here?"

"We would've heard about it by now."

He grabs his Lancer with a frown. Yeah, I understand what he's saying. Maybe not all of the Gears knew the locals could make something real, something delicious, other than stew. It's selfish of me to keep the cookies but what am I supposed to do? Cut them into enough pieces for a full regiment of Gears? As if that's really possible.

I offer a cookie to Cole before retying the parcel as we walk. He takes one, bites into it, and immediately groans with delight.

"Just like Mama's baking," he says and stuffs the cookie into his mouth.

I stash the parcel in my belt. Later, I would find the woman who made these and ask her why, out of all the great Gears on the island, she chose to give me something so precious. Hell, maybe cookies aren't a big deal to them, but to Gears it's the promise of something new, something normal. Something that deserved a real thank you.


	4. Denial

Denial

"So, Blondie, when are you going to settle down and pop out my disgruntled grandchildren?"

The question was so unexpected, Baird set down his soldering gun and stuck his head out of the boat's engine compartment to look up at Bernie.

"What the hell? Is that Alzheimer's setting in, Granny?" he asked with surprise. "Maybe you should sit down."

Bernie rolled her eyes. "I was being serious, you arse. Spirits are high and I know you've gotten some compliments about your genius lately. Even with that awful gob of yours, I'm sure the ladies have noticed your brains. You've been outperforming the whole league of engineers right now."

That might have been an exaggeration but Baird wasn't keeping score. He was working with everyone on Vectes to speed up repairs. Did it help that he knew how to do things better? The engineers were great but he just understood machinery on a level he didn't expect anyone to comprehend. He could dissect and repair anything with a few cannibalized parts; he'd been doing it since childhood. The engineers were useless without their military-grade tools and replacement nuts and bolts.

_Yeah, I guess I'm the greatest thing right about now. A jack of all trades too happy to get his hands on machines. If people mistake that for generosity, let 'em._

"I haven't heard too many complaints, but definitely never enough compliments," he said, the pride clear in his voice. "I've only fixed VNB's guns, rigged up communications in the boats, fixed the damn submarine by myself, and then worked my magic on Gorasnayian technology." He pulled himself out of the compartment and stretched his arms over his head, cramped from the enclosed space. "Maybe you should pat my head and call me your good little boy for old time's sake."

"Aww, jealous of Mac?"

"Hell no. Your asshole-hound could drown for all I care."

He stood and stepped away from the engine for a moment. It would take a little more work to patch up the holes from the Stranded attack, but it was coming along. The fishers would have their boat back in record time.

"So be serious, Granny, what did you mean by that question?" Baird asked. "You weren't trying to ruffle my feathers. Shit, you're fishing."

"Must be getting rusty in my old age if you saw it that easily." She shrugged, unapologetic for the bizarre question. Baird didn't believe it. People had to focus on surviving, not producing kids. That's what the civilians were for. Gears didn't have time for emotional shit.

Bernie jerked her head to the left where Sam was walking the dock, rifle in hand. Yeah, Baird had been stuck with the Harpy Squad, but that was the price for staying in Pelruan to work.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Private Byrne lately," Bernie said with a shit-eating grin. "She's as surly as you, good with machines. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but she's a great gal. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me."

Baird threw his hands up in panic. _Shit, shit, shit! She's trying to play matchmaker!_

"Whoa, no way!" He shook his head furiously. "That crazy bitch? One insane South Islander woman in my life is more than enough. If I ever find a woman, I want the real thing. Not a brute in a skirt."

He spared a glance over his shoulder to see Sam staring holes in him. Had she heard? Maybe he did accidentally raise his voice in terror, but damn, he could never imagine holding hands with her. Just thinking about it was a nightmare. She'd probably try to dislocate his shoulder before even allowing him within her presence—not that he wanted to be there.

He didn't hate her in the technical sense. She was a Gear; he would fight and die for her as he would any other Gear. But Baird firmly believed women were better off in supporting roles, not front line. They stopped being all soft and cuddly, like real women should be, and became venomous bitches.

For Sam, it seemed like one big show. She had to be louder, stronger, and drink more than a man. It was a transparent act but Baird couldn't look past it. He hated the way she cocked her head when she was agitated—which was almost all the time—and how she stuck out her jaw and squared her shoulders just before she picked a fight. She tried too damn hard to be one of the guys.

Bernie and Anya were different. Hell, even Gettner. They just knew how to demand Baird's respect without overdoing it. Sam was still fresh to maneuvering the COG military world, despite being in service almost as long as Baird. It was just sad.

If he was being honest with himself, he could admit Sam was kind of pretty. Not his type, but _kind of_ pretty. But there were two problems he couldn't overlook: she was constantly hovering around Dom and finding excuses to touch his arm or some shit. That didn't sit well with Baird; as hard as Dom tried to hide it, he was still mourning Maria. And the other reason was simple enough: Sam reminded him too much of Alex fucking Brand.

That was an impassable hurdle.

"Maybe if you just give her a chance," Bernie was saying. He realized he was still staring and turned back to Bernie, giving her his undivided attention. "She seems to really—"

"For the love of God, _stop._" He grimaced, realizing just how harsh that sounded. _And even after I promised to be nicer to her, damn it._ He tried again. "I appreciate your concern about the state of your grandchildren, but they won't happen any time soon. I don't have time to think about things like that. There's too much work to do and too many days of this uneasy peace to suffer through before any of us can consider things like family. Some of us are still too busy grieving the previous one to think about starting another. But whenever you and Hoffman set the wedding date, you know where to find me. I'll even be your ring bearer if it would make you happy." He patted her shoulder and crawled back into the cramped space of the engine compartment, pulled down his goggles, and went back to work.

Even if Bernie wasn't aiming to goad him, he still felt jostled by the question. He never felt pressured to pass on the Baird line so why now? Suddenly he realized just how old he was getting, and even if he made a terrible father like his own, he still wanted to try.

Why did problems always seem more real, more menacing, when someone else put them in prospective?


	5. Formal

Formal

Damon hated this time of year. When the chef needed a duck, Damon wanted to crawl into a hole and wait for the ordeal to blow over. But no, Elinor Baird would never allow it. The formal family dinner was too important.

_ This piece went here and this one right beside it, and then this screw held them together. That looks right._

He was, in fact, hiding but he knew it would end soon. His nanny had strict orders to watch him. He was nine years old, and to him, he felt that was old enough to make his own decisions. He also felt he was too old to have a nanny.

He glanced up at the clock in his work shed. He'd spent the better part of last year building the shed from any scrap he could find. It gave him a sense of pride that he could build a solid structure, and that it angered his mother. The sight of the metal shed amongst the perfectly groomed gardens made Damon grin, but he couldn't shake the disdain he felt for the upcoming nightmare.

Two hours until the big show. Maybe this year would be better. Maybe no one would threaten the other with a lawsuit.

_ Yeah, and my name isn't Damon Symon Baird._

"Damon! Damon, are you out there?"

He sighed and set down the device he'd been working with. He could ignore the nanny but he knew she would make her way into his work shed. No one was allowed in. It was_ his_ space.

"Yeah," he called. "What do you want?"

"It's time to come in, dear. Miss Elinor wants you to be ready for dinner."

It never ceased to amuse him that his mother refused to be called "Mrs. Baird." It was always "Miss Elinor" or "Miss Lytton." Why did she marry Jocelin Baird if she was so ashamed to be called one?

"In case you lost the ability to read time, dinner isn't for another two hours," Damon snapped. "Just leave me alone."

"Miss Elinor wants to remind you of last year, when you were five minutes late to the table."

_ Five minutes. Like it's the end of the world._

"Have you been playing in grease? Is there dirt under your nails?" He checked his nails. Yeah, they were dark from prying open the device's case. "Come inside and get a bath," she continued. "Your outfit is already laid out for you."

He threw his screwdriver against the wall. It ricocheted with a satisfactory bang. "I'm not wearing a monkey suit!"

"Don't raise your voice at me, young man. Imagine if your father were here."

Damon grit his teeth. He stomped out of the shed, locking it behind him as he returned to the house. His nanny stood just outside the veranda door with a small smile, ready to usher him inside and through the long maze of halls. He didn't want to get clean. He enjoyed the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his face, and the filthy clothes he wore. It was his one small act toward controlling his life.

But now he had to dress up like Elinor's perfect doll. He knew he wasn't really a child to her, just a burden. He was alive to carry on the Baird name, nothing more. She had left his upbringing and well-being to a stranger so she could enjoy her life. Now and then, she would dress him up and pretend to be a mother, but Damon had stopped lying to himself a long time ago. He knew all he needed about Elinor Baird.

Damon entered his bedroom and slammed the door in the nanny's face, signaling he could get ready by himself. She ignored his tantrum and opened the door as she had many times before.

This would be a long night.

* * *

After he was clean and dressed in a suit and bow tie, his blond hair combed and controlled, the nanny deemed him presentable for dinner. There were ten minutes left until the strictly scheduled time, but that left plenty of room for him to socialize with the family.

The nanny led him to the eastwing parlor where he knew Grandfathers Baird and Lytton were waiting with his parents. He could hear their laughter from the hallway. What was so funny? Normally their conversations were quiet, controlled. What was he missing?

"Behave for Miss Elinor, Damon," the nanny whispered and then knocked on the door. She didn't wait for a response before opening the gleaming cherry oak door. "Excuse me, but Damon is ready, Miss Elinor."

Damon stepped into the stuffy room with a grimace. It smelled like cigar smoke and big egos. His mother smiled at him and brought him further into the room; she'd already had too much wine, Damon decided.

"There's the little runt," Grandfather Baird said with a guffaw. "Looks more like you every day, Jocelin."

Damon's father, standing by the fireplace, bristled with pride.

"Don't be ridiculous," Grandfather Lytton growled. "He looks more like Elinor. It's all in the eyes, see?"

"No, look at that frown. Same as his father's."

It was always like this. One side of the family wanted him to be completely theirs. Either way, he was inheriting the Baird fortune. He knew absolutely nothing about his mother's side except that Grandfather Lytton was a serious hard ass.

Elinor set him down on the plush chaise on the opposite wall from where the family gathered. She gave him a critical eye—one that was both assessing and warning—before turning back to her company. He was nine, not four, but he was still just a nuisance to her. He would never be allowed to join the adult's conversation. His job was to sit quietly and pretend he didn't exist.

"So, Jocelin, how are the negotiations coming for our Damon?" Grandfather Baird asked. He took a sip from his crystal glass; brandy was his preferred alcohol, Damon knew, and judging from his red face, he was already drunk. "Find anything suitable yet?"

"There have been more offers than I expected. I've whittled it down to three candidates," Jocelin replied.

"We were so surprised when we received letters as far as New Sherrith," Elinor said. She always had to butt into a conversation. "But Damon is such a bright young man, it's really no wonder."

Damon wanted to gag, but they were openly talking about him and that had never happened before. He was intrigued. Had they decided he was old enough to hear this or did they forget he was in the room? He crossed his arms over his chest and listened.

"I hope you had some say in the matter, Elinor," Grandfather Lytton said.

"Of course, Father. Jocelin and I made the decision together. We have three candidates, like he said, to interview." Elinor stood beside her husband and touched his arm. "But I already have my eye set on a specific type for my son. I just know he'll enjoy her."

_As if you know anything about what I like. Wait, her? What her?_

"They were mostly heiresses," Jocelin continued as if they hadn't said anything. "But I found three intelligent girls with a good pedigree, and any one of them will further the Baird name in society. Damon won't have to struggle for anything in life."

"He's still joining the war effort, correct?" Grandfather Baird asked.

"If it's still being fought, of course."

"That will be difficult for his new bride to handle. Make sure that comes up in the interview process."

Bride? War effort? Damon balked. He jumped from the chaise and Elinor immediately stopped him with a glare. He wanted to yell, to demand what they were doing, but he was a smart boy. He already knew. He had never been able to make his own decisions in life, why should he get to choose who he married?

"Where do you think you're going, young man?"

It was almost time for dinner. She wouldn't let him escape. "Excuse me, Mother, I have to use the restroom." She raised her eyebrows at his clipped tone, but at least he wasn't screaming.

"Make it quick."

He went to the door on numb legs. Outside, his nanny still waited with a patient smile. He was always surprised how no one seemed to know him and yet, somehow, they knew him too well. Elinor's sentry would ensure he attended dinner.

"Bathroom, Damon?" she asked politely.

He pushed past her without comment but she followed dutifully. His intestines felt like ice. Never before had he hated his parents this much. He knew they were organizing his life but he never thought they would do something as big as an arranged marriage behind his back. Weren't most kids told they would be married off? He wouldn't go through with it. No, he wouldn't have to. Magistrate Jocelin Baird would do the paperwork; he would use his influence in the political world. Damon wouldn't even have to sign on the dotted line.

This was his normal life. He was a pawn for his parents to increase their social standing. They never stopped to think about what he wanted or how he felt. He was used to their behavior by now, and yet as smart as Damon was, he was met by a total mystery. He could not understand why, out of the many things Jocelin and Elinor did, this made him cry.


	6. Companion

Companion

Cole's a big guy—okay, more like a huge guy. It's immediately noticeable. When people see him coming, they automatically move out of the way. But he's also the first person they turn to for answers. He's big but loveable, I guess, and definitely more open than most Gears. But he's always been a bundle of energy.

When I first met him, I found that optimism he projects as nothing more than a nuisance. How could he be happy all the time with the death and destruction around him? It seemed disrespectful to me. Then I found out the real reason.

This is what makes Cole a goddamn hero.

It doesn't matter if he's hit rock bottom on the emotional scale, he won't show it. He'll keep that positive energy going just to make other people feel better. He never cares about himself; he's always thinking of everyone around him. Whatever he's actually feeling stays locked up somewhere, even after the immediate crisis. It's not healthy.

He's lucky to have me and my observant eye. I've learned his signals.

When he's upset, he'll start to pace or bounce his leg—anything as long as he's moving. When he's afraid, he won't shut up about Thrashball. Yeah, he normally always finds a way to relate anything to the sport, but it's when the chatter never stops that I know he's pissing his pants scared. It's similar to my habit of bitching. I grumble on a daily but it's only when I'm terrified that I don't shut up. Cole knows this and often finds a way to save me from my big mouth.

I can't really remember when I started considering him my buddy, I just remember that it was nice to find someone who would be there for me, no strings attached. It took some time to get used to it, of course. I went my entire life surrounded by people who wouldn't provide a scrap of sympathy unless they got something in return. Cole's just so open, so honest. It freaked me out, but his ability to boost morale was intriguing.

The first time I saw Cole in battle was at Kinnerlake. The man was a machine. He wasn't afraid of anything, just stared down a couple of drones and made their day a whole lot worse. Okay, maybe's that when this whole thing started. I followed after him because I might have been a little afraid for his safety, and that's when I got to see Augustus Cole, not The Cole Train.

He was an unstoppable tank fueled by rage. He had lost his family to the grubs like any normal person on Sera and he was damn sure he would kill every one of them personally.

It was kind of beautiful.

After the battle, he was back to being The Cole Train. The unshakable, unmoving pillar of optimism, but I could see the fight had left a mark. He was still going to smile, though, just because he had to. Because everyone was counting on it. I've followed Cole ever since.

We compliment each other, I guess. I'm the brains, he's the brawn; I'm the pessimist, he's the optimist. Perfect opposites. As much as it should have annoyed me that I found a human presence I enjoyed, it really didn't. It was nice to have some company in my lonely world, and then Marcus and Dom joined the party.

They don't have the same ranking in my life as Cole, of course. If he's ever in trouble, it's a knee-jerk reaction to go to him. No thinking, just doing. He's always first on my mind on the battlefield right next to _Stay alive._ Marcus and Dom are second, but it took some time for them to get there.

I know they're my squad and that I should look out for them more, but what's the point? Those two have a force-field around them that screams _Stay out of our way._ They've been through a lot together and one always puts the other first. They look out for each other the way Cole and I do, so who am I to barge into their business? As long as Dom is alive, Marcus is safe, and vice versa.

In the COG, support is everything. Shit, that's all we have left. Everyone has that arm they can lean on when the shit gets rough. With Cole watching my back, I feel like I can take on the whole grub army and come out alive on the other side.


	7. Letters

Letters

Cole slapped Baird on the back. The blond man jumped with surprise and looked up to the looming mountain of a man. Did Cole never stop smiling?

"Yeah?" Baird snapped. In his rare moment of peace and quiet, he was busy poring over blueprints of the Armadillos. The last one his squad had taken out groaned too much for comfort and barely absorbed the roughness of the road. He was betting on it being a problem with the struts, but first he had to find them in that compact ball of metal. He was lucky to bribe a print off an engineer, which he now secretly studied in the barracks.

Cole pretended to take interest in Baird's notes. "Sorry to bother you while you're looking at porn, but do you have a free scrap of paper?"

"Paper? Yeah, sure." He dug into the pouch on his belt. As a rule, Baird made sure to collect anything he could write on. Any paper still in production was reserved for the Chairman and Control; everyone else had to make do. Normally Baird would tell anyone else tough shit, but he had grown to tolerate Cole; hell, maybe he liked him a little.

Baird pulled out a small slip that was already worn from constant erasing. Before he offered it to Cole, he asked, "Am I ever going to see this again?"

"Probably not, if that's okay," Cole replied with an apologetic smile. "If not, I can ask someone else."

Baird sighed. "I doubt anyone else is as resourceful as I am. Listen, I've got plenty of extra pieces so you can have this one for free. Any others and I'll have to charge you."

He passed the paper to Cole and he accepted it with a laugh. Someone down the long line of cots mumbled for quiet and Cole apologized as he sat on his own sagging cot. Baird watched as he smoothed the paper over his knee and pulled a stubby pencil from his shirt pocket. He sat in deep thought for a moment before he began to scribble in the left corner.

Baird returned to his work. How could he even replace the struts in the Dill? The nearest auto parts store—which happened to be six hours away—definitely wouldn't have military grade parts. If it was even still standing and if Stranded hadn't raided it.

_ Damn vultures. They take a lot of things I could use. At least we're allowed to shoot if we catch them in the act. Rules of engagement and all that shit._

"Damon," Cole interrupted. "Damon?"

"What now?" he asked. "I'm kinda busy, Cole."

"I was just wondering if you had a knife. My pencil broke."

Baird pulled a pencil from his belt pouch and tossed it to the other man without looking. "You can't keep that, got it?"

"You're a good man, Damon."

Baird looked up to that honest face of Cole's. Did he seriously mean that?

"It's just a pencil, not ammo or a ration bar," Baird replied. "If you want that, you have to take me out to dinner first."

Cole chuckled and, shaking his head, returned to his letter. At least, it looked like a letter to Baird. Cole was writing as small as possible to save him the trouble of erasing in the future; that proved he was smarter than some men Baird worked with.

Five minutes of blessed silence passed and he had finally worked out how he could salvage parts and rework the support of the Dill, and Cole was still writing. He stopped and started sporadically but it was starting to get to Baird. What could be so important that he would use his free time writing? Most Gears preferred to catch a nap or lounge in the mess. Baird liked to create ways to keep himself busy, like the Dill problem. He could have reported it to an engineer but solving it meant he wouldn't have the chance to let his mind rest.

"So, uh, Cole." Damn, Baird wasn't expecting it to be this hard to ask. He was used to staying out of people's business. "I didn't realize you had family to write back to." There, that was his best effort at sympathy. It sounded human enough, not like an uncaring jackass.

"I don't," replied Cole, pencil still scribbling. "They died on E-Day."

"Girlfriend?"

"Nah. I'm writing to my mama."

_Oh shit, he's gone off the deep end. Should I alert medical personnel?_

"But you said they … passed."

"Yeah," he sighed. "I guess it's a habit now. Back in my Thrashball days, I'd sit down to write her a letter after every big game. I called her all the time but there's just something special about physically writing the ones you love, especially when they call you up all happy about receiving a letter, you know?"

"No, I wouldn't know. My parents and I didn't see eye-to-eye. Hell, we barely spoke."

Cole shook his head. "Damn shame. I bet they still loved you and had your best interest at heart. All parents do, no matter how they treat their kids."

Baird could have said a lot of things to that. He didn't believe for a second his parents saw him as anything other than a successor. If he wasn't their offspring, maybe he would go as far as saying they hated him. That wasn't entirely true. They tolerated him through childhood and it was only after he announced his plan for the future did they genuinely hate him. Denied his inheritance, they refused to speak to him for three years and died without trying to repair that bond. He only knew they were dead because his family's estate was in a sinkhole. No hurried phone call, no last letter—just gone.

But Cole was a family man. Saying any of that would probably just upset him.

"Sure, I bet they did." Baird shrugged, rolling his head as he often did when uncomfortable or embarrassed. "So why do you write letters to your mom if she's gone? Can you communicate with the afterlife? Send a letter through astral projection?"

"Nah, man, nothing so fancy. It's … peaceful. I know it's stupid to write a letter she'll never get, but it helps me relax, clear my mind for the next crisis. And even if she's gone, nobody's ever really dead unless we forget them."

"Very philosophical, Cole," Baird replied. But he had never thought about it like that. _Once you're dead, you're dead. That's it._ Living on through memories never occurred to him because he considered himself a forgettable person, not to mention he didn't have close friends or family. No one would want to remember him.

"Sounds like you're jealous, baby. Cole, meathead ex-Thrashball star, outsmarted Damon, scrawny brainiac!" He guffawed and reached across the small gap between the cots to slap Baird's shoulder. "Don't worry, I've always been an average student."

_ You're smarter than you let on, Cole. I may have excelled academically, but you understand the world. You know what it means to be a real human being, someone adored for being yourself and doing what you love. Yeah, maybe I am a little jealous._

Baird shoved Cole's massive hand off his shoulder and rolled up the Dill blueprint as he stood. "Whatever. Are you done with that pencil? I gotta go strike a deal with an engineer."

Cole handed over the pencil and asked, "Do you ever stop tinkering? Don't you get tired of it?"

"Gotta make myself useful somehow, right?" Baird tucked the blueprint under his arm and the pencil behind his ear. He left the barracks with the sense Cole was watching him, maybe waiting for a confession, but that would never happen.

_ You've got your coping mechanism, I've got mine._


	8. Flame

Flame

"You don't think Prescott'll really do it, right?"

I looked over to Cole as we hurried to reinforce the barricade. His concern was loud and clear on his face but the screaming people beyond the gate were louder, and I was more worried about them breaking through than nursing Cole's unease.

But I could take time to be nice.

"I'm sure it's just a scare tactic," I said. Truthfully, everyone was taking this Hammer of Dawn thing pretty seriously—people I hadn't seen in months were coming in by the shitload—but I was doubtful. Being a subterranean species, we should attack the Locust underground. What was an orbital laser going to do? But Cole was looking for reassurance, not my realistic shit. "Prescott is probably using this as a farce for something behind the scenes. Just watch—it'll all blow over in three minutes."

"Whatever you say, Damon."

"Well it's not like it's a power play. Prescott has total authority now and anyone crazy enough to challenge him under the Fortification Act deserves to burn in a satellite laser."

Three minutes left until the big show. Chairman Prescott was probably sitting in his office drinking coffee, watching as we tried to contain the press of thousands of civilians outside the gates. They were screaming as they pounded against the iron but we had already been ordered to turn them away. The city was filled to the brim and Emergency Management now struggled to place the spare bodies. Whatever Prescott thought, we didn't have the housing for a couple extra hundred civvies.

What was he even trying to do? I didn't trust politicians—who actually did?—but even Prescott couldn't be that much of a psychopath. There were still millions of people on Sera that couldn't reach Jacinto, maybe more than a thousand outside the gates. What we had in Jacinto was a handful of civilization, and if we burned everything else, how would we rebuild humanity?

If Prescott was really going through with it, I hoped he understood the cost.

I switched my ear-piece off receive-only as Cole stacked the last sandbag. "Control, this is Private Baird at the east gate. Fortifications complete. Anything else you need while we're out here?"

"Negative, Baird. All forces are to get to the nearest barracks immediately."

A Raven swooped over my head heading toward the northern end of the city; the deck was full with another batch of Gears. They were cutting it close.

"You sure there's nothing else to do? Any supplies we can unload or civvies to place?"

"Just get inside," the female voice barked. I wasn't sure which officer was on duty but I didn't envy any of them right then. It had to be hell in High Command trying to find every squad and organize before the shit possibly hit the fan.

I switched my radio again and gestured to Cole to wrap it up. "RTB, Cole, double time. They want everyone inside before the Hammer drops."

He finished settling the barricade and took one last look at the gate before jogging toward the eastern barracks. The civvies outside were screaming there was only a minute left. Would we really let them fry? I didn't believe it would happen, and Jacinto really was unable to accept anyone, so I was okay with leaving them out.

But what if it really happened? What if a huge fucking laser dropped from the sky at that very moment and destroyed everything? That helped me run a little faster, and I hoped the civilians were smart enough to bunker down somewhere.

Inside the barracks, it was as full as I'd ever seen it. Gears were clustered around either the radio or a window while officers shouted to stand back. How bright was this thing supposed to be? Would we even see it coming?

Cole motioned he was going toward the mess—he looked a little sick—and I joined the group by the window. Yeah, I was a little curious. Thirty seconds and counting.

Prescott wouldn't go through with it. The cost was too high for anyone's conscience. It _might_ have a chance to wipe out the Locust, but with that many human lives on the line? No way. Prescott wasn't a monster.

The guy to my left kept checking his watch. "Ten seconds. Do you think they'll go through with it?"

"Prescott wouldn't set the world on fire, right? There's so many people still out there," someone replied. "They tried climbing over the gate. He wouldn't do that to the people who supported him."

_Five. Four. Three._

Adrenaline pulsed through my body. This was a huge fucking risk. He wouldn't do it.

_Two._

Shouldn't the atmosphere shift? Wasn't there a warm-up sequence to the laser?

_One._

Everyone took a collective breath and waited. There was a split second of stillness and then … shit, I didn't know what I was looking at.

It sounded like a sandstorm raged outside, or maybe a tsunami was coming our way, but there was only a thick red beam glowing white hot in the center. Some Gears immediately turned away, covering their eyes; the barracks shook and others looked around for a grub hole. I strained to watch—the beam was bright enough to make my eyes water even from this distance—and tried to make sense of the situation.

_I left those people out there. I left them to die. Prescott really went through with it—shit. Shit, shit, shit._

Suddenly there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. I stepped away from the group but couldn't feel my legs as they carried me toward Cole. He always had something ridiculous to say in any situation; he was an unflappable mountain. I needed him to tell me it was going to be okay, that the world wasn't going up in flames and humanity was dying right outside our walls.

He was still in the mess, hunched over a table with a steaming cup of something between his hands. "So we did it," he said quietly, not like him at all. "The COG dropped the Hammer on society and all those innocent people are gonna fry. It's not right, Damon. It's just not right."

"It … I'm sure—"

_Just a handful of civilians. How do you explain yourself? What do you say? What will be left standing?_

I passed Cole and ran for the bathroom.

_Damn it, this shouldn't be happening. I don't care how many people were still outside the gate. I don't. I'm not supposed to care about anything—detached, cold, impenetrable. I didn't create the technology, I didn't give the order, I didn't push the button. But I had to turn all those people away. Prescott didn't have to face them personally._

I reached the toilet just as my legs collapsed and bowed over the bowl. The last faces I saw—a pissed off woman with a kid clinging to her neck, a man with a bag over his shoulder, a teenaged girl in tears, screaming to see her father—crawled behind my eyes and the bile rose instantly.

Lunch had tasted pretty damn good going down, but now it burned coming up.

A hand patted my back. "Cough it up, baby," Cole said. "Always knew there was a human inside you. Just get it all out, man. They're already talking about getting out there tomorrow to search for survivors."

My stomach flipped and I took a deep, steadying breath. "There won't _be_ anything—anyone—left out there," I groaned. "Did you see that beam? It's final."

"Have some faith, Baird."

"Faith? How can you have faith with the whole goddamn planet burning?"

"Because if I don't believe this will end the war, all those people out there are dying for nothing. I'm not going to disrespect their sacrifice like that."

I couldn't say anything to that.

I sighed and flushed the toilet. The walls had stopped shaking so the beam must have moved on. I'd never seen something so horrifying. What did the civvies think seeing that thing coming towards them? Were they afraid or resigned? Did they try to run? Was it an instant death or did they burn as long as they could hold on?

I'd never had a fear of fire, but now our world had changed in one short minute. Sera would burn for days, maybe months, and I wasn't sure I could face the charred bodies. I'd have nightmares for weeks.

"It'll be all right, Baird," Cole said; he didn't sound like he believed it. "We're all in this together. We just gotta hope our chairman made the right choice."


	9. Tremble

Tremble

Baird was ready to piss himself.

When the grindlift landed in Nexus, Baird and Tanner had landed in the middle of a work field. Humans mindlessly chipped away at rocks while Locust, what seemed like a whole army of them, stood watch.

It was a short skirmish. The Gears didn't stand a chance on the Locust home turf. Despite grindlifts raining from the ceiling, none of them landed nearby for support, and the two Gears were easily outnumbered and overrun.

Baird had thought the Locust would kill them. Instead, he was being treated like a prisoner and currently held in a tall metal pod, his head throbbing from taking a punch. But his jump mate was in worse shape.

"Tanner, hey, you okay, man?" Baird called. Tanner took a direct hit to his shoulder before they'd been captured.

"Fine," he replied, winded. "Okay, you're the expert here, Baird. Why are they taking prisoners? What are they trying to mine in this place?"

"How the hell should I know? This completely goes against everything we know about Locust."

For fourteen years, the Locust had proven themselves as murdering machines. Why they were taking prisoners now, he couldn't even begin to guess. They were supposed to kill all human life, not enslave it.

Tanner made a surprised noise and before Baird could ask him what happened, something clanged on the top of his pod and he could see, through the open slat in the door, that he was being winched into the air. Immediately he crouched to feel for hinges along the bottom—he was _not_ falling to his death—and was relieved when he found none.

The pod came to a harsh stop and, with the groan of machinery, the scenery began to move horizontally. He tried to see out the small slat but he could only see the sickly yellow light from imulsion and the bases of stalactites.

"Where the hell are these bastards taking us?" Baird wondered aloud, hoping Tanner would offer a bright idea. He didn't reply.

Baird took a deep breath. He would be okay; he just had to figure this out. Something would come to him. It always did.

Now that he had some quiet, Baird realized he hadn't heard any radio chatter since entering the tunnels. For all his bravado, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, and tried twice to activate his ear-piece.

"Cole, you receiving? It's Baird. Cole?" He waited for a moment. "Delta—anyone? Damn it!"

He hated when comms were dead, and it seemed to happen a lot more now than before.

_We're underground. Everyone's in the dark right now and I'm sure Control is doing everything they can to reestablish contact. If they were smart, they sent an engineer down here with a portable comm tower. Or maybe if we just blow a hole in the ceiling—yeah, blowing things up sounds good._

The scenery was starting to slow down, Baird noted. After a few minutes, they came to a stop and the pod began to lower. He braced himself. _What if we land in some Locust colosseum and they expect us to fight to the death for their entertainment?_

"Tanner, you still there?"

No answer.

The pod set against the ground with a shudder and Baird tried to get a look. It was bright, wherever he was, but crawling with grubs. He saw more pods beyond them. Four grubs detached from the group and started toward him. He pressed his back against the opposite wall, but there wasn't much room to run.

One stopped to peer into the slat and he barely resisted spitting on it. That wouldn't improve his chances of survival, whatever they happened to be. He was unarmed in the Locust base. What were the odds he could escape in one piece? And what about Tanner? A wounded shoulder wouldn't help fighting their way out.

The grubs communicated somehow—with grunts and hisses and a few Tyran words Baird hardly recognized—and then his pod was moving again. The smell of the area was overwhelming; it reeked of death and excrement. Human or Locust, he wondered. The movement stopped and boots clattered away from him. He pressed against the slat again, maneuvering to get a better view.

He still couldn't see shit.

It wasn't just being without a weapon—he held a Lancer twenty-four out of twenty-six hours every day for fourteen years, he was feeling vulnerable—but the unknown that worried him. Why did the grubs need prisoners? What were they going to do to him?

He tried the radio again. "Cole, come on, man. Someone's gotta be out there. I'm stuck in some grub POW camp and I have no idea where Tanner is. Don't leave me here, man."

Boots clambered against the metal floor again. Baird closed his eyes to better concentrate, separating the footsteps and counting four grubs coming toward him. Okay, he had to take the chance. He had to fight his way out somehow. Maybe some of Cole's Thrashball moves had worn off on him.

He waited, the tension rising in his limbs. His hands balled into fists but he had to look calm—they would be able to see through the slat that he was preparing to attack. The boots came closer.

_Come on, you ugly bastards._

They stopped beside him, just out of view. The screech of metal told him they were either transporting a prisoner or coming for another one.

"No! Stay away from me!" Tanner yelled.

Baird's stomach dropped. There was a scuffle beside him and he hoped Tanner was trying to fight, but judging by the terrified gasps Baird could hear, the grubs were wrestling him to his feet.

Baird banged his fists against the door. "Hey! Tanner, what's going on?"

"Get away from me—don't touch me!"

"Fight them, damn it!"

"N-no, don't—"

Two rounds discharged and Baird felt the vibration carry through the pod. He felt numb, his eyes bigger than usual. He couldn't blink. He couldn't move.

_They couldn't. Not Tanner. Shit, I didn't even really know the guy._

He wanted to call out, to know if those were warning shots or if Tanner was really…

A grub stepped up to Baird's pod. He jumped back, his back colliding with the metal in a sharp movement; it sounded like a gunshot in his ears. He flinched.

"Scum," the Locust gurgled, baring its rotting teeth at him.

"Fuck you," he spat with more courage than he felt. A fine tremble started in his legs, climbing up his torso and into his arms. He'd never felt so powerless in his life.

The grub chuckled and walked away, but now the group was dragging something. Tanner. Shit.

Adrenaline couldn't even overcome the feeling of dread. He wanted that rush that would numb him in a good way, not the cold he felt now; he wanted the adrenaline that would switch his body to auto-pilot, to let him function without over thinking. But the dread had firmly settled in his gut.

No one knew he was trapped here, he couldn't run, he couldn't fight. He was either going to die or become part of the grub's working colony. They'd proven he was expendable if he put up a fight. The humans down here looked mindless, completely brainwashed, and he was not going to end up like that.

He hit his fists against the inside of the pod. "Hey, is anyone out there? Come on, anything that's not a grub—anything at all!"

He almost wished a crazy old man would answer him, tell him it was no use screaming, and then conspire to escape. Even if he was betrayed in the end, just like in the movies he used to watch, Baird could handle that better than solitude. He needed something to distract him from the fear.

No one would think to look for him, not until it was all over. Maybe they would just assume he was dead. If he stayed here, he would die in the flood. Jacinto was coming down whether he was stuck in a Locust camp or not. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't even raise his squad on the radio.

His breathing started to pick up. He crouched, holding his head in his hands. _No, I can't afford to hyperventilate right now. Shit, calm down. Calm down. Cole won't leave me here, he wouldn't._

But even Cole could assume he was dead.

The tremble turned into uncontrollable shaking, like he was back in the damned grindlift. His teeth chattered, his muscles seized at random, and he dug his fingers into his thighs. _Get it under control, man. Deep breaths. Relax. It'll be fine._

But Baird had always been realistic; he didn't, he _couldn't,_ fool himself about anything. Just once he wanted to try that optimism shit Cole always tried to feed him. He wanted to believe his friend would come for him, he wanted to believe that the Locust wouldn't come back until then, he wanted to believe that he wasn't staring death in the face.

He'd been through a lot of shit, but he'd never been alone while facing the monsters. Cole, or someone, was always at his back. Now he didn't have that support. The grubs got Tanner, and Baird was thankful it wasn't Cole, even if he felt shitty for it. For the first time since he joined the COG, Baird was alone. He never realized how much he had come to hate it.


	10. Restless

Restless

Baird never thought he would see the day when he retired his Lancer. Technically it wasn't gone for good, but he wielded a screwdriver or blowtorch more than a weapon since arriving on Vectes.

They had finally run out of things to shoot, and it sucked.

Sure, their Stranded friends were still on the northern end of the island, but after Marcus put them in their place, VNB and Pelruan were as quiet as could be. Baird was okay with quiet—in fact, it was nice to finally be able to think—but not sitting around. Even helping the building project couldn't entertain him for long. It wasn't active enough.

He wasn't on duty all the time now; Hoffman was starting to relax schedules. Patrols still went to Pelruan, but that rarely happened now that Anya was permanently stationed there with a group of Gears. They kept everything orderly and neat. It was starting to make Baird antsy.

He found he couldn't sleep most nights. He would lay in bed listening to the other men snoring, waiting for something to go bump in the night so he could shoot it. The worst that happened was someone having a nightmare. It was the perfect time to catch up on his sleep without worrying about grubs stealing the ground from under his boots, and yet he couldn't switch his mind off. His life was dedicated to action, to killing, and now there was nothing left.

What would he do with his life? What _was_ there to do? Maybe he could start a farm with Bernie—Mataki and Son was okay with him. Or maybe fishing; there seemed to be some fun in that.

Of course, it was only fun for him if he was in a submarine firing torpedoes at everything.

He was itching to get back in _Clement_, but since he repaired their sonar, Commander Garcia didn't have much use for him. That was more than upsetting.

Baird paced the length of his bunk in agitation. He just couldn't sit still and that bothered him. When did his life become ruled by the need for adrenaline? He felt he had to get out and do something—now.

Cole entered the barracks, which was uncommon at this time of day. He was still on duty. He crossed his arms and watched Baird pace, laughing. "What's wrong, baby? Looks like something crawled up your tailpipe and died."

"I'm going out of my mind, man," Baird replied. He didn't think anything of admitting his weaknesses to Cole; they'd been through a lot together and being on Vectes had definitely softened up the blond bastard. "I need something to shoot."

"Why not fix somethin'? That'll keep your fingers busy."

"Parry and Sharle have everything under control. Even Garcia doesn't need me, and I can't convince Yanik to let me touch _Zephyr_." He ran both hands through his hair, the anxiety plain on his face. "I don't know what to do now. I hate this!"

Cole grimaced. "I think you oughtta take it easy."

"I _can't_ take it easy. You don't understand, Cole, because people love you any day of the week. People only like me when I prove I'm useful. I don't have a winning smile or even a handful of charisma to lean on."

His friend came further into the room and slapped Baird on the back. "I think you just need some fresh air. It's difficult on all of us right now. You see Marcus—he never parts from his damn radio. He feels it too, Baird. Everyone does."

It was just the past, Baird knew. Now that he had extra time to think, he'd been considering his childhood a lot. He never got along with anyone even if he tried. The only time he felt worth anything was in the COG army—which never ceased to amuse him in a horribly ironic way, especially since he had so vehemently refused to join. It didn't take much to be accepted, but it was a feeling he lived for. He knew how to sight up and pull the trigger; that made him capable, even likable when he saved someone's life. He lived for the times when someone complimented his shot or realized how tech savvy he was; he took pride in their confusion. Everyone thought he was a worthless trust fund baby. He couldn't resist rubbing his skills in their faces.

But now there was nothing—nothing to kill, no tech to salvage, nothing he could build. The other Gears had finally stepped up and he had no one left to pat his head and call him a clever boy. Well, except Mataki, but she seemed to have her own issues to deal with. It almost irked Baird that there was no one to pay attention to him.

"If you want to talk about it, you know I'm always here for you," Cole said. "Hell, even Boomer Lady would listen. She cares about you a lot more than she lets on. You have support here, Damon, so use it sometime." Cole slapped Baird's shoulder this time and grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Anyway, Marcus needs the super group to suit up. Hoffman wants us to do a recon on the Stranded up north. Now if you're a good boy, you might get the chance to shoot something."

"Gee, thanks, Cole," Baird sighed. He shook his head, smiling despite the heavy gloom. Cole always had a way to make him feel better, even if that meant joking about killing Stranded. "Tell Marcus, no promises. I'll keep my hands and feet to myself, but I can't help it if a round manages to hit some vermin. My Lancer's been pretty restless, and it's been known to have a mind of its own."


	11. Mad

Mad

Today was the day. Today he would finally tell his parents what he had decided for his future. It had been a topic of conversation since he was born, but it was only three years ago when his father warned him he should seriously consider a career choice. It wasn't pressing; Damon knew whatever he chose, his parents would have something to say about it. Besides, there was just one field he was interested in: science. Machinery, to be specific, and he knew he was damn good at it; the world could benefit from his talent. Now, at seventeen, he was prepared to tell the strangers he called Mom and Dad.

As Damon walked through the mansion, he recited the conversation in his head. He wasn't afraid of his parents but he wanted to be sure they understood him perfectly. He was old enough to make his own decisions, not to be their little toy anymore, and that he could be a responsible adult without years of military training. The Lyttons were big supporters of the war; every generation served in the army. Well, Damon wasn't getting wrapped up in his mother's traditions. He was a Baird, and they were known for being stubborn and brutally honest.

He stopped at the door to the east wing parlor. Both Jocelin and Elinor would be inside enjoying their afternoon brandy, completely oblivious to the existence of their son. _Maybe today is the day they'll realize I'm a living human being._ He almost wished he hadn't fired his nanny. Suddenly he wanted her to knock on the door for him and announce him like she always did, but he was seventeen. He could face these people on his own.

Taking a deep breath, he held it and knocked. The sound echoed in the quiet expanse of the hall and it felt like an eternity had passed before Jocelin called, "Yes?"

Damon exhaled. "It's Damon, sir." _Your son._ "May I come in?"

"Come ahead."

Damon opened the door to find Jocelin and Elinor situated in the plush wingback chairs in the center of the room. The atmosphere was tense and he could imagine his parents wondering why he would bother them. It wasn't just Elinor's scathing glare that made him uncomfortable but the room itself. When he was younger, this was the boundary between a kid's world and the adults. No matter how many times he was here, he always felt small and unnecessary. Maybe it was the row of bookshelves lined with the impressive history of the Bairds and Lyttons, or maybe it was the portrait of the founder of the Baird fortune hanging on the wall that unnerved him.

"What do you want?" Elinor snapped. She had an open book on her lap. "Your father and I are very busy."

"I'm sorry, Mother, but I was hoping to borrow a few moments of your time." He picked his words carefully. He knew calling her _mother_ would make her seethe—she always insisted she was much too young to be a mother—but it made her listen. "I wanted to inform you both that I've decided on my career path."

The formality of it all made Damon squirm internally. If he had his way, he would have said, "Fuck your family tradition, I'm doing what I want now." But that only worked in a normal dysfunctional family. In the Baird family, it was all about stiff jaws and propriety.

Jocelin looked wary yet excited. "Does this mean you've given the army some thought?"

_ I haven't lost a second of sleep over it._ "I've considered it but it doesn't seem very … me. My science scores have always been the highest in my class, and I've been done with school for two years now. Colleges wanted me before I ever graduated and medical schools were interested in my designs—but that isn't something I can commit to. I have the paperwork ready to go in the mail for something that I can really picture myself doing." This was the moment of truth. Damon watched their reactions carefully. "Father, Mother, I've decided to become an engineer."

The silence was immediately thicker. He waited for the outburst he'd expected to follow but the only sign of distress was Elinor's shockingly pale face.

Jocelin touched her hand and stared at his son as if he was speaking another language. "Damon, are you sure about this?" Of course the magistrate would try to calmly talk him out of his decision; Jocelin hadn't gotten to his position without becoming a master of manipulation. Damon wasn't falling for it.

"I'm positive. With the college I've chosen, I can begin the courses immediately and they already have job opportunities lined up for me. They said with my talent, I could finish their classes in two years, maybe less. This is something I"—he paused, unsure if he should show such weakness to his parents—"yeah, something I really, really want to do."

"Like hell you do," Elinor hissed, snapping her book shut as she stood. "You are part of the Lytton family line and you have a duty to join the army. No son of mine is going to waste his life with machines."

Damon clenched his fists, his rage immediately boiling to the surface. _It's always her. She has to try to take everything away from me._ "Oh, so I'm suddenly your son when it suits your needs? I've been your little _pawn_ since I was born. I stayed where you put me, I didn't object to the way you ran my life even though you were never there. I did everything I was told. Well, Elinor, in case you forgot your _son's_ age for the twelfth time, I'm fucking seventeen and I can do whatever I want! And what I don't want is you controlling my life anymore."

Elinor stomped toward him and with a booming smack, his cheek was on fire. He was taken off guard; she'd never hit him before, but she had also never been around long enough to have to punish him. That was the nanny's job or, if he was in serious trouble, Jocelin's.

Damon rubbed his cheek but even with the surprise, his anger hadn't burned out yet. He balled his shaking fists, swallowing the urge to retaliate, but his nanny had raised him better than to hit a woman even if he hated her.

"Yes, you are only seventeen, Damon," Elinor said, her voice quiet and trembling with her fury, "which means you are still a _child._ And as a child, you listen to your father and I. We will not tolerate this attitude of yours, and as long as you are a Baird-Lytton, you will join the army or else lose your inheritance. Am I understood?"

Sneaky bitch. She had him right where she wanted him. He wouldn't give up the family fortune to pursue a career choice and she knew it; it was too much to forfeit. Damon wanted a comfortable life, and although he hated being used, he hadn't had to struggle for anything. Now he couldn't imagine living a normal life.

"I said, am I understood, Damon?"

"Yes, ma'am," he grumbled, defeated.

"Good. I want to see those papers. Go get them immediately."

He grit his teeth. She was going to destroy his hard work. It wasn't just filling out forms, there was a fifteen page paper to go with it. For a moment, Damon wondered if the family fortune was worth the heartache.

"_Now,_ Damon," Elinor said. Her tone didn't leave any room for an argument.

Damon stormed out of the parlor to retrieve the papers, knocking over fragile and priceless art lining the halls as he went. One day she would get what she deserved, he decided, and he wouldn't shed a tear for her. In fact, Damon prayed the day would come sooner when both Elinor and Jocelin would disappear from his life.


	12. Sunset

Sunset

As we stood in the remains of Azura, I watched Anya comfort Marcus on the beach. It was the first real moment I'd seen them share. It was too personal and beyond intimate for me. I went back inside the hotel while Gears and Gorasnayans secured the area. Someone would have to point them in the direction of Myrrah's corpse soon, but it wouldn't be me. I'd seen enough of that strangely human face, thanks.

I found Cole with Sam and Dizzy in the makeshift trauma center. The COG might have been disbanded but they still functioned the same way. Establish a small, sanitary area, haul in as many bodies as possible, patch them up, and ship them out to fight. But the only casualties today were the Locust and Lambent. Wherever his ashes were scattered, Adam Fenix was beyond saving.

"So it's really over," Sam said, stealing the thought straight from my head. "I never thought I'd be alive to see it."

Dizzy patted her shoulder. "You and me both, sweetheart, and I'm nearly Hoffman's age. Shoot, I bet that old bastard is pleased as punch to still be alive for this."

"Trescu's already diverted a bird for Anvil Gate," I said, stepping closer to the group. "Hoffman's gonna flip when he sees this place for real."

"Wait, Trescu's giving orders now?" Sam asked.

"He's the highest rank at the moment and he probably doesn't want to run this rescue mission alone. Besides, Hoffman was basically Prescott's lap dog for almost twenty years. He might be able to make sense of this shit."

"A secret facility in the middle of a fucking ocean? No, there's no rationalizing this, Baird. It's a luxury bunker. The bastard really did abandon us when we needed him most. He was going to hide until we were all dead."

I shrugged. "Personally, I was excited about the Stranded pirate king theory. That would've made my year."

Sam's jaw flexed, settling into that gesture that said shit was about to hit the fan. "Can't you be serious for one minute, asshole? People are _dead_, those of us left are scattered to the wind, and now what do we do? Well, genius?"

Before I had a chance to reply, she knocked her shoulder into mine as she passed, actually forcing me back a step in surprise. I watched her leave then turned to Cole. He was good at deciphering emotions.

"What was that about?" I spat, rubbing my shoulder. "I was being serious. I wanted Prescott to ride back to Vectes in a gold-plated yacht that could fit thirty-thousand people. Not hole up in some facility with the world's greatest minds to ride out the storm."

"Sam's the type to tackle any problem she's afraid of with her bravado," Dizzy replied. "That girl will never let you know she has a heart of gold in there—just like someone else I know." He gave me a pointed glance and I rolled my eyes. _Just get to the point._ "She's just scared. Hell, I am too. The war's over but what have we got left, fellas? Toppled cities, no technology, nowhere left to run. We have to build everything from scratch."

"We'll it's a good thing we've got my skills, huh?"

"_And_," he continued as if he didn't hear me, "she's probably still reeling from Dom's sacrifice. I think that hit us all hard, but Sam was…"

"Oh, right. That." It was no secret Sam had a thing for Dom. They were often inseparable in Pelruan or New Jacinto, but I doubted Dom was ready for a relationship so soon. Maybe if Sam had waited—maybe if Dom was still with us now—something could have come of it. I still felt she was pushing her luck on his better days.

Cole touched my shoulder. "Maybe you should go talk to her. Apologize. You remember how to do that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, use my 'nice' words. I got it. I don't see why I have to apologize but I guess I'm the most qualified psychologist in this little group. Unless"—I motioned to Dizzy—"you have some hillbilly wisdom to share. Don't drink moonshine before bed? A creature on the side of the road isn't roadkill, it's lunch?"

"Just get your ass out there, boy, or else my boot will make it hard for you to sit down for two weeks."

Cole laughed as I dutifully made my way back outside. I took the time to wave to the Gorasnayans that I recognized or called out to me. Yanik must have spread some tales while I was gone; most of them called me Blondie-Baird and they weren't permitted to do so. Strangely, I couldn't bring myself to care.

I found Sam leaning on the patio rail, staring into the vivid sunset. Okay, this was it. I had to prove that I was, as much as I hated it, somewhat human. What the hell was I supposed to say? _Sorry Dom died but you didn't deserve him anyway_? No, that would get me a black eye. Shit, I wasn't good at these touchy-feely things.

I stood beside her, turning my back to the sun so I could continue watching the other men; Trescu was doing a fine job with organizing. Sam decided not to acknowledge my presence and I scrambled to find a way to break the tension.

"So, uh, you know you're not supposed to _stare_ into the sun, right?" I asked. "Some people think it's okay to look at it even during an eclipse but that'll still blind you. I'm worried about your safety here, Sam. I mean, I _could_ see you doing that."

She sighed and shook her head. "What do you want, Baird?"

"Oh, am I ruining a perfect brooding moment? We just put an end to a seventeen year war. Can't you ever be happy?"

"Can't you ever just shut up?"

"I'm trying to help, actually. There was a reason I came out here."

"What's that, to yell at me for being emotional? That I should suck it up and solider on?"

I rubbed the back of my neck and turned toward the dying sun. It was a brilliant orange, much better than the crappy red we had been getting. I leaned my elbows against the rail as I stared over the water. "Surprisingly, no, but it would be fun. I came out here because, before she left, Granny taught me some manners. So… I'm sorry, Sam, that maybe I insulted your fear. I honestly don't know what we're going to do without Prescott or Michaelson, or even Dom. But we have a lot more work to do now more than ever. We've managed to be self-sufficient this long but Hoffman's coming back. He'll make it all better."

"Yeah, he's amazing. He could motivate anyone to jump into a lake of imulsion and come out the other side. He can help us rebuild."

"And I'm sorry… about Dom. That it didn't work between you two. Shit, I knew the guy for what seemed forever. I thought out of him and Marcus that Dom would be the one to make it. I'm going to tell you something but I want you to forget it immediately, got it?"

She nodded with a small smile on her face. No, she wouldn't forget, but this wasn't the kind of thing just anyone would spread around.

"I always thought Delta was invincible. I mean, Marcus threw us into some serious shit but we always survived, right? It was only after Dom died that I realized all these bastards that I've come to like have always had the chance of dying, and that eventually nature _will_ take its course. And I'm… I really am terrified of that." I cast a glare at her. "But if you tell anyone, I'll deny it. Be prepared to look like a bigger idiot."

"Wow, Bernie was right. You really do have a heart," she said with a grin.

"Whatever. Look, for what it's worth, I think you guys would've been nice together. You're about as ladylike as a baboon in a dress but I think you could've helped him heal."

She punched my shoulder with less force than usual. "Like you're one to talk. You're a worse gentleman than a pig in a tux!"

"Hey, I cut a nice figure in a tuxedo. I'd put any pig to shame."

"Baird, you _are_ a pig."

It was the first laugh we'd shared and for a moment I saw Marcus and Anya in my mind. Is that how we looked to passer-bys? Lovers, or just two enormously relieved idiots able to laugh about something good for once? Shit, I really hoped it was the latter. I didn't need anyone getting the wrong idea.

As the sun set behind the water, I felt a wave of melancholy. I wasn't the sentimental type, but it was almost like watching the story of my life come to a close—nothing neat and tidy, but full of struggle and blood and something that would make a great biopic one day. And with the effort of rebuilding the world I used to know, I knew that soon I'd get to pick a pen and write the sequel.


	13. Accusation

Accusation

Two Onyx Guards shoved me ahead of them in the tight hallway. I could hear my squad mates receiving the same treatment behind me; they kept us separated since the court-martial was handed out in a pathetic attempt of a scare tactic. The courthouse itself was a flimsy attempt. It was built during the Era of Silence so it was all fancy pillars and statues and cramped hallways meant to make the guilty tremble and the rest feel secure. In its dilapidated state, I wasn't impressed.

I was prepared to defend myself and Kilo Squad as long as I had to. As far as I was concerned, we weren't guilty. We held a crunch position against all odds and stopped a raging commander from destroying the rest of Halvo Bay. Back in the Pendulum Wars I would have received a fucking medal—today they were putting me on trial. Shows how much the COG appreciated their grunts now.

Another pair of Onyx Guards were stationed at the double doors leading into the courtroom; it was always nice to see our elite troops kept busy, not like we had a worldwide war going on. They opened the door and my escort shoved me into the dim room. I scowled and would have told them to piss off if I didn't know it would be used against me. I didn't need their help to walk and I wasn't going to run away, but they were having fun. It wasn't every day they had a trial for a lieutenant.

The courtroom was round without a table or chair for the guilty; everything was composed of stone and polished marble, though most of it had begun to chip away. The domed ceiling had a crystal chandelier that shook with the constant _whomp_ of artillery in the distance. The war was going on right outside the door yet they still cared about normalcy enough to go through with a court-martial, or maybe the man in charge was just that anal. Yeah, I could believe that.

Colonel Ezra Loomis sat in the towering stone bench with his typical disdainful glare. He was a man of order from the hair on his head to his pressed dress blues. The idea that someone under his command wouldn't do as he said like a blind pawn obviously upset him. It almost made me beam with pride that I could shit on someone's power parade.

"The trial of Kilo Squad will now commence," Colonel Loomis said as my squad joined my side. Sofia gave me a look that clearly said _You ruined my life, bastard._ I ignored her. "Lieutenant, your squad is charged with desertion, cowardice, treason, the theft of experimental COG technology, and trespassing. How do you plead?"

_ The list is longer than I thought. Dad would be proud._ "Not guilty," I said.

The look on his face was priceless. Yeah, maybe I'd done all those things—except I hated the term "cowardice" and preferred "saving my ass"—but it was for a good cause. Without my squad, none of us would be alive to have this pathetic trial.

"I hope you realize what you're saying. This isn't some public court system where your family name could pull weight. This is _my_ courtroom; I am judge and jury and you, Lieutenant, are nothing. You committed a severe crime against your government and there are consequences that you must pay."

"What crime?" I spat. Sofia's elbow immediately made contact with my armor in a futile attempt to shut me up. Prissy little bitch was ready to roll over and accept the colonel's bullshit. Not me. "I did my duty—I fought so that your ass could sit safe and sound in Command like a good little officer. My squad kept you alive. We stopped an advancement of grubs, held the museum, and took out a rabid, mutated spider creature just for shits and giggles. You wanna put us in front of a firing squad because I defended Halvo Bay when you claimed it was lost? Don't punish my squad for your mistakes, Colonel. We're still alive to have this trial so obviously I did _something_ right. Here's an idea, maybe I should have your position and you can get your ass on the front line to call the shots."

His face had become an unhealthy shade of red and I was surprised he let me rant. He must have known that I would have bulldozed whatever pathetic excuse he could have interrupted with. Beside me, Sofia sighed heavily. Cole had been trying for six weeks to teach me how to control my mouth; it was an old dog, new trick situation. But here, it was helpful. Sofia would thank me after this.

Garron stepped forward as if nothing had happened. "Colonel, if I may speak?"

Loomis shifted in his seat, his fingers white with their tight grip around each other. Oh no, he really wasn't happy. "Whatever you have to say, I'm sure it won't help your case. Your lieutenant is a prime example of insubordination. I'm not sure anything can help you now."

"If you'll excuse my lieutenant, sir, you have to concede we accomplished an incredible feat."

"Although our methods were _wrong,_" Sofia said, lips taut.

"Yes, but Locust do not care about military strategy. If we had pulled out, Halvo Bay would be rubble. At least now there is time for evacuation. That general—Karn—he was too much for even my people. He wiped out our army, our cities, until we were almost nothing. Lieutenant Baird may be a reckless man, but he was not afraid of Karn and doing whatever it took to stop his path of destruction. With Lieutenant Baird's leadership, Karn is now dead."

"This is not about revenge for your people, Private Paduk. The COG have rules, standards—every Gear takes an oath of servitude that they will remember their place in our grand machine. They will _follow orders_," Loomis barked.

"Will you can it already," I said. "You don't even have evidence or witnesses. All you have is rank and what man wins his battles like that?"

I swear his face turned three shades of red again. He stood up, possibly using the height to scare me into submission. If anything, it just annoyed me more. "If you're trying to remind me how pointless this trial is, Lieutenant, then please, dig your hole deeper. I thought I would give your squad a fighting chance since this was your first offense but I see I was wrong. You may get the firing squad yet."

As if I really cared. Whatever the afterlife was like, it had to be better than what I was living now. I didn't mean to drag other people down with me, but they all knowingly agreed to this. It was their funeral.

Cole cast me a glare of disapproval and stepped forward. I liked Cole, I really did, but if he thought charming stories of his thrashball days would make this better, he had one hell of a wake up call coming. But maybe he found a way to make this all better, like he usually did. Cole was good with people; he had to be, being a big superstar and all.

"Colonel, please excuse my friend, but he ain't all there, if you know what I mean," Cole said. If I hadn't just won a battle only a lunatic could win, I would have been insulted. "Every one of us is suffering from guilt or grief and Dam—Lieutenant Baird is finding it difficult to cope. We all watched our old lives go up in smoke, but he's a bit different. He's never experienced the real world before he joined the army; he don't know the rules yet. I know he seems heartless and reckless, but that's part of his charm, sir. I admit we were wrong—we should have retreated like you ordered, but Lieutenant Baird—no, Kilo Squad couldn't sit on our asses and let the grubs destroy more families. We didn't do it the best way, but we got _results,_ sir. Right now, that's all anyone can ask for." Cole ducked his head as if he was afraid he said too much and stepped back into line. "Thank you, sir."

Loomis sat down, his face back to a normal color, and rubbed his temples. There was no way he could ignore Cole; that guy was a frigging walking teddy bear. He could put things into proper perspective and you just didn't say no to him—believe me, I found out the hard way.

Loomis sighed. "All of you disregarded my orders, but because of that you saved countless lives. You stole highly unstable experimental technology, but it helped to bring an end to General Karn. I see a dangerous hero lurking inside you, Lieutenant, and I'm not sure I like it. Being a hero can cause more trouble than necessary for one person. I'd shoot you myself yet we need all abled bodies. Do you have anything to add before I pass judgment, Lieutenant?"

I grinned, summoning up every bit of snark I could manage. "Let the record show that I was right all along. Next time, mind your own damn business and let me do my job. I know what I'm doing."

Loomis steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. "I don't believe that will be possible. For your crimes, Kilo is sentenced to two months in jail."

"What!"

"This is already a _very_ lenient sentence. I could lock you up for life or insert you in a suicide squad. Your choice, Lieutenant."

He waited with narrowed eyes. He wanted me to have another outburst, but I grit my teeth. I could handle two months, and so could Garron—he was just recently released from a POW camp; jail would be nothing next to that. But what about Cole and Sofia? They were all soft-hearted do-gooders. Shit.

_It beats standing against a wall and getting a bullet through your skull. I'm not going to kiss the colonel's boots and thank him, but I have no room to complain either. I brought this on myself._

"I also strip you of your rank and disband Kilo Squad. When you're released from prison, you'll be assigned to new squads."

"Sir," Sofia interrupted, "what about my Onyx Guard candidacy? Can I continue my training in Ephyra?"

Of all the things to be worried about. Her government just threw her under the bus for saving lives and she was still concerned about protecting them. Idiot.

"With your past service record, we'll consider it when the time comes. _If_ you can prove Private Baird left no lasting impression," Loomis replied dismissively. "Now, bailiff, if you would escort Privates Baird, Cole, Paduk, and Hendrik back to holding, I'll arrange for a transport."

The Onyx Guards descended and ushered us out the way we came in. Sofia went ahead of me looking like a kicked puppy. What was so special about the Onyx Guard that she felt compelled to be there? Was it a family tradition? Damn it, why did I even care? She had a rigid moral compass but she, eventually, agreed to do whatever we had to do to push back the grubs.

Cole caught up behind me. "Sorry, Baird, but I tried. I didn't think the colonel would strip you of your shiny stripe. I know how much it means to you."

_Back to private, my first demotion. Damn._ "Yeah, I kissed a lot of ass to climb the ladder. My technical and combat skills had nothing to do with it. But… thanks, Cole. I knew you would pull something off the top of your head. Medically unsound? Unfit for duty? I would have never guessed that."

"Hey man, you don't have to tell me anything, but The Cole Train's been looking out for you. It's not complete bullshit."

"Whatever, man. If they find out you were lying, they could hold you in contempt of court." We were not having this conversation with other people around. I didn't feel guilty for anything, I wasn't grieving, I was just surviving. My old life didn't matter anymore. I was Lieutenant Damon Baird, finally able to make it on my own without the weight of my father's heel to crush me. I didn't need his name or his money to be successful.

"Not like it matters now. Jail, huh? The media will eat this shit up. Former thrashball superstar in jail, and for once it's not for a scam or illegal drugs. Guess I won't be able to write Mama from in there."

"I'll let you cry on my shoulder about it. But not in the group showers—make eye contact with me at all times or else I'll kill you."

"Shit, threatening to shiv me already! Garron, you in for a little tag-team tickle fight against Baird in the showers?"

The Gorasnyan laughed from behind me. A few days ago he would have growled with disgust but he had grown used to Cole's teasing. "Better watch your back, Baird. A pretty face like yours will fetch much attention."

I sighed. "Ah, goddamn it. I should have agreed to the firing squad."


	14. Outside

Outside

As Baird walked through the northern camp of Port Farrall, he realized just how little he owned. The civilians all had a grab bag of miscellaneous junk and people with cars and boats had even more than that—Gears had nothing. Very few had family mementos and others only had the shirt on their back. Baird had nothing to his name, only the tools on his belt and the ammo he forgot to hand in when he went off duty.

He passed tent after tent of people huddled together or sorting their belongings. It had only been two days since they evacuated; the town in the near distance was still unusable despite the engineer corps best efforts. They still had a lot of civilians to place, but thankfully they had heat. Now Baird wondered how long it would last and how long before tempers flared.

Something caught his eye from the opposite row of tents. A man bundled in winter gear pulled a thick red coat from a bag, holding it up to inspect it. It looked in perfect condition to Baird, and he wanted it. No, he needed it. Standing around in the snow with only armor was a sure way to catch his death.

Baird crossed the walkway and called, "Hey, old man! Anyone using that coat?"

The man looked up, coat clutched to his chest. "Excuse you?"

"Yeah, excuse me while I freeze my ass off protecting you." Baird rolled his eyes, stopping beside the man, and gestured to the coat. "What do you want for it?"

"Are they still keeping up with your salary? Money won't do you any good now, Gear."

This was why Baird avoided civilians—Stranded or otherwise. They were an idiotic herd of meatbags until someone snapped at them or wanted something. Did it matter to them that Gears risked their lives? No, not really. Very rarely Baird spotted someone thanking a Gear or saying something nice. The civvies weren't afraid to get mouthy with their protectors and it pissed him off. It was outside his comfort zone; there were other Gears better suited for civilian liaison.

"Listen, old man, I can give you half a ration bar for it. How does that sound?"

"I'm not comfortable taking more than my share."

"But you're okay letting Gears freeze? Come on, you guys have more than any of us right now. It won't kill you to share."_ How many times have I heard that in my life? God, I sound like my mother._

The man contemplated it. Baird watched him chew it over, losing patience with every passing second. He could have ordered it out of the man's hands, but maybe he did have a heart. He was legitimately willing to barter to get the coat. If he could, that was at least one coat in circulation for the rest of the Gears.

_ I'm not doing a good deed or anything. I just want a damn coat, and Dom's shift is next. He could use it._

Baird knew, whatever excuse he told the man, he was lying to himself. He didn't want the coat for himself or any other Gear, but he wanted to do something for Dom. It was only two days ago when he had to put his wife down. Years of searching—all for nothing. Baird wasn't able to offer any comforting words or even be there for the guy. A simple act like this was the only way he could think to show his support. _He's miserable enough; he doesn't have to be an icicle, too._

"What's your name, son?" the man asked.

"Corporal Damon Baird. Why? Going to report me for harassing you?"

"Just wanted to make sure I had the right goggled shithead," the man replied with a challenging smile. "Your reputation proceeds you. I heard you're good with machinery."

Baird's eyes lit up and he grinned. This was his lucky day, after all. "Well I don't mean to brag, but yeah. I can fix just about anything."

"You know enough about cars?"

"Better than I know the back of my hand."

The man tied the coat's arms around his waist and motioned for Baird to follow. The army had claimed all vehicles for their cause and were parked in marshaling zone Q. Baird knew the society had come down to bartering, but he never imagined to trade his skills instead of material possessions. He tried to keep his interaction time with civvies to a minimum, but maybe their dog-eat-dog world of bartering could teach him something.

A rusted truck had its' hood propped up, wires and multicolored tubes spilling out into the cold. The man leaned against it. "She won't start and the engineers don't have time to take a look, but I'd really appreciate it if I could get it up and running. A few folks around here think it's the carburetor that's causing problems."

Baird dug into one of his pockets and pulled out the flashlight Marcus had given him, thankful the NCOG boys still had some common sense to stock up. He handed the flashlight to the man, instructing him where to shine it, and then leaned over the hood.

_Well, that explains all the wires,_ he thought. Someone had completely disconnected the piece in hopes of finding the problem and Baird could see it like a Berserker charging at him.

"Your carburetor's flooded, man. Probably the fuel pump," Baird sighed. It was always a tragedy when vehicles were damaged. "You've also got a few holes on the choke valve. Did you drive this thing through a battlefield?"

"There was a small skirmish while we evacuated. I thought I heard something pop."

Baird stood and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed it wasn't a quick fix and mildly annoyed that someone had shot the truck. "Listen, I could _probably_ patch that up but finding a working fuel pump—or even enough parts to rig one—is going to be a lot harder. I wish it was just the float that was causing problems. Much easier to fix."

"When could you repair it?" the man asked hopefully.

"Whenever I get a chance. I don't get a lot of down time right now and I'll have to find some materials to patch the hole, maybe more if it's deep. Shit, if the bullet is still in there I'll have to dig it out, too. You'd be better off replacing the damn thing but all the auto stores are a thing of the past."

"So my truck will probably never run again?"

"Oh no, it has to. It belongs to the army right now and we need all the vehicles we can get—someone will come along sooner or later to fix it, but I'm offering to take care of it _before_ we're all dead. It just might take some time. I was kind of on a scavenging trip already so I'll keep my eyes open for the parts I need here."

"Could it be done in two weeks?"

_ Civvies. Thick and hollow as Sovereigns._ "I'm not making any promises."

The old man held out a hand. "But I'll hold you to it, Corporal."

Baird shook his hand and the deal was done. The man handed over the coat and Baird immediately slipped into it. It was a tight fit through the shoulders, but he was definitely warmer already. He shoved his hands into the pockets while he surveyed the truck, memorizing the rusted blue paint and the chip off the driver's side mirror. He would find the parts; he always did.

"Um"—_shit, what do I say?_—"sorry about this being a little one-sided. But I'll fix it, uh—what's your name?"

"Roland Baxter. And don't worry about it. I guess we all need to step outside our comforts now and then. Just as long as you eventually fix my truck, we're even."

Baird was at a loss for words. What did someone say in this situation? He couldn't keep up his end of the bargain yet so what was the protocol? Did he say thank you? He rolled his shoulders and hoped Roland wouldn't realize just how uncomfortable he felt. Not only did he rarely talk to civilians, he never made a deal with one. What if he couldn't fix the truck? Would Roland come after him? _I can't stand the unknown._

"Stepping outside our comforts, huh?" Baird mumbled. "Shit, I think I actually understand that one."


	15. Silver

Silver

There's nothing better than the smell of oil and fuel.

I stood in the garage of Anvil Gate surrounded by Packhorses and a handful of 'Dills and Centaurs; Dizzy's assault derrick had a corner to itself towards the back. Two trucks were pulled out of the orderly line and suspended on jacks, legs sticking out from each undercarriage. I already knew they would have nothing for me to do if I asked, so I let them work. They seemed to know what they were doing; if the trucks were still in working order, I couldn't complain, right?

I walked between the rows of vehicles and spotted the few civilian trucks they'd transported from Vectes. They were rigged with spare plate armor attached to the grill. If it were up to me, I'd have issued full skirts for every vehicle. That'd keep the polyps from getting underneath the wheels. It was disgusting how many vehicles we lost on Vectes but Bernie said the Lambent rarely bothered them out here; it was the Stranded who were the biggest threat. Yeah, when is that ever a surprise?

One of the trucks I passed was leaking oil and I stooped to try to get a better look. Shit. The puddle had splashes of luminescence that was definitely imulsion.

"Hey, one of you under the trucks," I called. "Did Hoffman authorize imulsion in the civvie trucks? I thought they could only run vegetable oil."

Wheels squeaked and one of the sappers' heads popped up above the line of hoods. "If you came to stir up trouble, you can scoot your ass out of my garage, Corporal."

Crap, it was a woman. Whoever it was, she seemed to know me and that was never a good thing. She wiped her hands on her overalls as she marched over to the truck beside me and scowled.

"This thing has a puddle of imulsion under it," I said. "Look for yourself. I don't make this shit up."

She crouched, balancing herself with a hand against the truck. She immediately cursed and stood with a sigh.

"I'm telling ya, this stuff is bad news," I said. "You should get it siphoned out immediately."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard all your theories. Thanks for bringing it to my attention but now I'm going to be a lot busier—kindly get the hell out." She turned and pressed her finger to her ear. "Hadley, get down here. I've got a civvie truck full of imulsion and I need it gone before the engine's eaten clean through."

Well, I knew when I wasn't wanted. I made my way out to the courtyard where men and women worked in their gardens. A few waved and I returned it, unsure of their names. I barely recognized the faces now.

"There you are, Blondie." I looked up to the inner gantry to find Bernie leaning on the rail. "Anya got the console hooked up. You ready to air some dirty laundry?"

I'd almost forgotten about the disc. A2897 had become a large part of my life after Hoffman handed it to me; it was so bad even after I returned it, I still believed it was snug under my mattress on Sovereign. I'd sometimes catch myself checking my inner pocket, making sure an imaginary disc was still there. I made sure to give it back to Hoffman, just in case someone else had a bright idea but even the Gorasnayan ex-spook couldn't crack it. The disc was completely impenetrable until Prescott personally handed us the key.

"I'll be there in a minute," I called._ If I can remember the way._ "Try to contain your excitement and wait for me, okay?"

"Vic's bouncing out of his boots already so no guarantees." She waved and pushed away from the rail.

I found the gantry steps and climbed the two rickety levels toward the command room. It was weakly thrown together in the upper levels of the fort where it had once been outfitted with the highest COG technology during the Pendulum Wars; now it had a few computers, the last remaining Hammer interface, and a broken long-range comm unit. Yeah, definitely a downgrade.

When I stepped in, Marcus hovered over Anya as she continued working at the console; Hoffman wasn't far with Bernie by his shoulder. Whatever we found, I hoped she could control his blood pressure. Now that I got a good look at him, Hoffman was looking old and beaten. If there was a tropical island out there without grub influence, he deserved to take a vacation soon.

Hoffman reached inside his armor and produced the disc already fit with the encryption key. "Baird, impress me. I want to know every last speck of data on this disc."

I accepted it with a grim smile, sat beside Anya, and popped it into the console. The screen blinked with pixelated text.

"How old is this thing?" I groaned, slapping the monitor. "Someone jiggle the display cord, will ya?"

Anya stood to play with it and after a few minutes, the screen leveled out to show the text I was so familiar with. I used to see it in my dreams, wishing and praying the magic code would reveal itself. This time, however, there was real data.

I'd been terrified that this thing would turn out to be a bust. What if it really was a waste of time? What if it didn't tell us anything we didn't already know or it was just Prescott's memoirs that he wanted published in the new world order? Seeing the information now—jumbles of code, schematics, and plenty of coordinates—I wanted to go find Prescott's body at sea and kiss his boots.

Yet none of it seemed to make sense. As I scrolled through the data, nothing jumped out at me; it was all nonsense. A bigger code for something different.

"Well I'll be a leviathan's uncle," Hoffman murmured, leaning over my shoulder. "That bastard finally threw us a bone."

"Kind of," I replied.

"What do you mean?"

I hated to dash the old man's hopes but, hey, I was the resident jackass. When someone wanted bad news, I got to deliver it. "Well, sir, to put it bluntly—he's dicking with us. Yeah, he gave us the encryption key but he probably knew we don't have the technology to view this thing correctly. It's all code. It needs a holo-projector."

"Shit."

"But there is a location—coordinates buried in the code." I scrolled through the mass of numbers and letters again, searching for the correct numbers that I'd spotted not moments ago.

Anya pointed at the screen after a moment; she found them. "That's out in the ocean."

"And we don't have any boats left," Bernie said. "He really does expect us to die."

The idea that Prescott had pulled one of his usual tricks really pissed me off, and Marcus and Hoffman didn't look much happier. But I wanted to believe that he finally coughed up the encryption key because he was trying to make amends. He knew he was dying; he had nothing left to lose. And he sounded pretty serious when talking about this Azura place. Couldn't say he didn't try.

"Colonel," Anya said, breaking the gloom and defeat in the air, "didn't you have a projector out here?"

Hoffman rubbed his face in a rare, weary moment. "Nothing as fancy as being holographic, but yeah, we had a small protector in the war room. It's still there but most of it's been scrapped for parts."

Anya touched my shoulder. "I know physics isn't your thing, but are you up for another challenge?"

The confidence in her eyes was terrifying. Could I really make a holographic projector out of scraps of metal? Normally it would require an entire science team with top of the line equipment—and Anya was sure I could do it without any of that. Shit, she had more hope in me than I thought.

I shrugged. "As long as someone names a city after me as the greatest man to ever live, I'll do whatever you want. When I was barely sixteen, I made a laser just because I was bored. I'm sure I can rig something up in a few weeks."

When people looked at me, I wondered if they thought I was a miracle worker with machines. Sure, I played it up, made it seem like I was able to create or fix anything, but even the brightest stars burn out eventually.


	16. Move

Move

Baird always dreamed of moving. Whether with his parents or without, he wanted to get away from Tollen's high society. He considered running away many times throughout the years but he knew he wasn't the "roughing it" type; he had become so accustomed to his comfortable life, it sickened him that he knew he couldn't live without it.

_ Well, that all changed when my life went down the crapper._

After joining the COG army, Baird was rarely in one place now. It was days like this when he missed the solidarity of his old life. After crash landing in Jacinto, he was tasked with civilian liaison and defense while evacuating a small sector in west Jacinto. He watched from the sidewalk as pedestrians ambled down the ruined road with as many belongings as they could carry. Trucks and cars still miraculously running were careful of those walking, but Baird wanted to speed the whole process up.

Command decided to sink Jacinto in a last-ditch effort to stop the grubs and everyone knew it. That didn't seem to worry any of the civvies, though. They took their sweet time as they moved in an orderly line like they'd been trained. Although some of them looked scared, they had complete faith that the COG wouldn't blow the ground out from under their feet. As far as they cared, they had all the time in the world.

Baird knew the truth, though. After meeting up with Colonel Hoffman in Command, Marcus, Dom, and Hoffman ran off to save the day. Baird had only made it out the doors when someone radioed for back-up while the civilians moved. Hoffman slapped his shoulder and told him to get on it, and so Baird stood hugging his Lancer as Ravens and Reavers streaked over his head and artillery echoed throughout the city. He looked up as another group of Ravens passed overhead. _Any moment now and one of them will drop out of the sky. They always do._ But Baird secretly hoped they were full of Gears from the Hollow. Not everyone was as batshit crazy as Delta to hijack Reavers.

The ground rumbled under his boots.

"Come on, people, let's hurry it up!" he barked. He was starting to get antsy. Marcus would radio in that he was ready to blow the place and not even half the civvies of this sector would be ready to ship out.

It was only when the rumbling persisted that the civvies began to hurry. Suddenly the gunfire was a lot closer than it had been and the radio was buzzing with activity.

"Contact in Sector Eight! E-hole on Diamond Street!"

Baird automatically looked south, the direction of the skirmish. _That's only two blocks away. If they don't close that hole, we'll be up to our hips in the shit._

"Sir, what's that gunfire?" a man called, having spotted Baird with his hand cupped over his ear to hear the radio better.

"Grubs on Diamond," Baird replied. "You guys need to get your asses moving in case they decide to join the party."

The man went pale in the face and hitched his bag higher on his shoulder as he spread the word. Suddenly car horns blared and Gears at the head of the convoy were trying to calm the storm of fear. They still had to get names for the roster and that was hard to do with civvies bleating and scattering like scared sheep.

_ It's the hive mind, mass hypnosis or hysteria—it's a bitch. They don't realize they make it harder for us when they act like idiots._

"Baird? It's Anya," his earpiece chirped. It never surprised him how radio procedure went out the window in crisis situations. "Marcus is under Jacinto now—he and Dom have a Brumak."

"Say what?"

"Yeah, I know, but that's Marcus," she sighed. "They're preparing a place for the Lightmass Bomb but it still needs prepped. Are you free?"

Baird wanted to call in to the squad that engaged the grubs nearby. Was the hole closed? He only heard sporadic fire now but that could have been the grubs. But who else could prep the bomb? There were enough men stationed here that Baird felt comfortable taking off.

"Sure. I'll be back in five," Baird said. "Just, uh, keep an ear open for this sector. Some guys took on an E-hole and I don't know their status. Grubs could be waiting to ambush the civvies."

"Roger that. Be careful, Baird." His radio clicked and Anya was gone. Baird wasn't sure if it was from Prescott looming over her shoulder or trying to keep tabs on Gears, or even just the idea of Marcus being Marcus and stealing a Brumak, but Anya sounded frazzled. It wasn't like her and that worried Baird. She was supposed to be the voice of reason, the one that promised everything would be okay; to hear her overwhelmed made him feel weak and unsure.

Baird jogged down the sidewalk to the front of the small checkpoint where several of Sharle's emergency management crew were getting names of civilians before letting them pass; it was all overseen by a nearby major sitting on the deck of a Raven.

Baird saluted. "Sir, I'm on my way back to Command for the bomb. Someone needs to light a fire under these civvies or else they'll drown."

"I heard," the major replied and shook his head. "The Lightmass is almost ready and we're still getting people on boats."

"Hey, don't be afraid to shove 'em on board and get names later." Baird gave another hurried salute, unsure of why he bothered, and ran north toward Command.

When he was a child, he wanted nothing more than to move away from Tollen—maybe Tyrus altogether. But now that the last habitable area was about the go under, he found himself wanting to stay. What would they do once they were off Jacinto? How would they survive? Sure, they already had rations safely stored on a boat, but for how long could they last? It was a crazy leap of faith for the COG and Baird hated the unknown. He wanted to know that when he woke up tomorrow—_if_ he woke up tomorrow—that he wouldn't have to move around anymore, that his life would even out and everything would be fine.

_ Ha, yeah, and sinking Jacinto will end this war._


	17. Order

__Order

_What was that? Don't tell me that was Kim—he was a lieutenant, right? Damn. What _was_ that thing? I've never seen a Locust like it before._

Baird helped Cole and Gyules reinforce the door to the Tomb of the Unknowns and leaned heavily against the wall, running his hand over his face as he caught his breath. They weren't supposed to be ambushed. It was supposed to be simple as Delta picking them up, hopping on a Raven, and flying away to safety. So far, this resonator was more trouble than it was worth; playing escort to this thing was the worst job he'd been given.

"So you're all that's left of Alpha?" someone asked quietly. It was one of the guys from Delta; the other was too busy conversing with Control to make small talk.

"You guys don't look much better," Baird sneered. "Your lieutenant just got run through by some grub commander."

Cole touched his shoulder and Baird shrugged him off, unapologetic. He was exhausted, running low on ammo, and officially tired of risking his life for crap that wouldn't work. It seemed like every day Command had a new toy or the Locust had a new camp, and Baird was responsible for taking care of it. He had never been very good at following orders and now their group was without an assigned leader; he could only imagine the pissing contest that would ensue.

The other man from Delta approached Baird, his report complete, and Baird responded automatically to the tension in the air by setting his jaw and balling his hands into fists. He wasn't sure the other man was trying to threaten him, but he didn't underestimate that icy glare.

"You're Baird," he growled.

_ Great, sounds like another shithead has a score to settle with my family name._ Baird stood up straight, getting into the other man's face. "Yeah, asshole. Question is, who are you?"

There was no time to reply.

A hollow screech echoed in the chamber and Baird jumped, whirling to find the source of the noise. He knew that howl. Was there enough time to make a run for it? No, he could hear her pounding footsteps already. They were officially dead.

"Oh, shit. Quiet!" Baird hissed, mostly at Gyules who whimpered by the door. "Don't move."

"What was that?" the man with the do-rag muttered.

"A Berserker. She can hear us—she can _smell_ us."

Baird grit his teeth and held his breath. Berserkers were blind but their sense of smell was ten times better than a dog; even if they found a place to hide, she would be able to find them. If she was desperate enough, she could track prey for two days.

Gyules stood, his breath ragged behind his helmet. "Oh man… oh man. We're fucked! I'm getting outta here!" Before Cole could grab him, Gyules ran around the corner and the group watched in horror as the wall exploded, menacing shadows dancing in the dim lighting. The Berserker found Gyules.

Baird covered his mouth and willed the bile down. He took two steps back, a guy from Delta doing the same as he whispered, "Oh my god."  
Do-Rag—as Baird had nicknamed him—got back on the radio to Control. _As if they can do anything. We're sitting ducks. Damn it, I'm getting real tired of this shit. Are there still penalties for going AWOL?_

"Alright, guys," Do-Rag said and motioned to his partner to follow, "sit tight. We came here to help you and that's what we're gonna do. Dom, let's go."

Delta took off around the corner and Baird felt sorry for the Dom guy. Do-Rag was obviously the brains of the operation; he automatically assumed leadership after Kim was killed, and by the way Dom followed without even a tiny complaint, there wouldn't be any competition about who was in charge now. He was being led to his death by an idiot who, apparently, feared nothing.

Baird had more common sense than that, and his was telling him to get out.

He pulled his Lancer from its sling and had only taken three steps when Cole grabbed him.

"You heard Marcus—he said to stay here. You really wanna fight a Berserker?" Cole whispered.

"And let those guys get all the glory? Who are they, anyway?"

"The guy with the do-rag is Marcus; Dom, his partner, said something about getting him outta jail."

"Shit, he's a criminal?" Baird balked. "They really are recruiting anyone these days. There is no way I'm owing my life to a fucking scumbag."

"Naw, man. I think he served before. He's a real good shot. Saved my life already."

_Listen to him, not a shred of disgust or pride. He's all humility._ "Well I don't take orders from convicts. I'm going after them."

Cole sighed and, never one to argue, resigned himself to following Baird. As they crept through the halls, Baird was almost tempted to stop whenever he saw the dull flash of a plaque. What was the occasion, and during what part of the Pendulum Wars had these people died? But he wasn't a history buff—he wasn't even sure he really cared. He just wanted to focus on something other than his heart pounding in his throat.

There was an explosion in the distance and debris scattered to the floor. The main antechamber still had electricity—barely. The lights flickered overhead and Baird wondered how long this place had been running on a back-up generator. It wasn't powerful yet provided just enough light to take in the damage. There was a hole in the far wall where a memorial wall previously stood, and just beyond it another wall was nearly demolished._ Damn, she really knows how to crash a place. No respect for history._ Baird picked his way over the rubble carefully, straining to hear where the Berserker was now. How was Do-Rag and Pansy leading her out? Were they making her run through random walls until they found daylight? Maybe they thought they could wear her down with a little rough exercise then use the bayonet on her. _Yeah, fat chance of the chainsaw getting through that hide._

"Baird, this way," Cole called. He stood in a doorway on the far side of the room, next to another gaping hole. "Looks like they're taking her out to the gardens."

"Date night. Great," Baird replied. "I bet she'll love that. A mausoleum for fallen COG soldiers, some fancy architecture—gee, I bet the flowers are beautiful this time of year."

The floor rumbled under his feet, the rubble clacking an uneasy rhythm near his boots as the ceiling threatened to cave against the force. His reflexes had him trained to look at the ground, to deduce precisely where the E-hole would appear, but this was different. There was the unmistakable smell of ozone and burning flesh, and as Baird followed Cole through the maze of halls and memorials, he could hear the Hammer of Dawn and the scream of the Berserker.

It wasn't long until his radio clicked and Do-Rag's gruff voice rumbled, "Hey, Cole, Baird, it's all clear."

Cole picked up his pace, Baird close behind. "There's no way—no _fucking_ way in hell those guys killed a Berserker," he said. "Yeah, a Hammer will do nicely but a convict? Is this guy for real?"

"Let's go thank the nice man, Damon," Cole said. "He just saved your life, after all."

When they joined the other men in the gardens, Baird stopped by the Berserker as Do-Rag called in to Control—_again._ Baird ignored the obvious air of authority, annoyed by the "do it by the book; call in every contact" attitude, and crouched beside the dead Locust, prodding it with his rifle.

Cole chuckled. "You hungry, Damon? Got some crispy, deep-fried grub here for you."

Baird sneered. _I can't believe this._ "No thanks. You can have my share, man. I'd rather turn her into a nice cadaver, maybe find out if baby grubs really do come from these things."

"Finally hit puberty, huh? Good for you!"

Baird ignored the jab. He stood and stretched his neck, pacing away from the body. He really did want a way to preserve the body for study—he had become something of a Locust expert among the ranks and he was always on the hunt for something new to examine—but the Hammer thoroughly fried its victims. He never forgot the ash bodies that once littered the highways.

His attention was diverted when he heard a new voice over the radio—Colonel Victor Hoffman. It wasn't every day the brass gave direct orders. What was the special occasion? Baird had been escorting the resonator for two days now; orders had always come from the comms officers. Was it because of Do-Rag? _It better not. What is he, the prodigal son of Prescott?_

"Delta, we now have a secondary target," Hoffman said. "You will deploy your resonator in the Lethia Imulsion Facility, due west of your position. And you're in charge, Sergeant Fenix. As of now."

Baird threw his hands up. "Sergeant?" _Are you fucking kidding me? This criminal is promoted ahead of me? Is Hoffman blind? I have more credentials than some—shit, I don't even know what he was in for, but I have way more experience than "Sergeant" Fenix. This is bullshit. Total bullshit. I am _not_ taking orders from this guy._

He stomped back towards Cole, his anger barely restrained. "Typical. Don't give the smart guy a promotion—no, give it to the jackass, instead."


	18. Wind

Wind

Damon leaned against the rail and stared down into the black water below, his blond hair tousled by the wind. He turned sixteen three days ago but if he thought this boat ride was for him, he was sorely mistaken. The only acknowledgement there was of his birthday was his parents handing him eight-hundred dollars and receiving a cake from the chef that Damon never touched. He was sixteen, almost the prime age to step into his family legacy, and he still didn't exist.

The reason he was on his family yacht, in fact, was for something much more selfish. Jocelin Baird was vying for a seat at Sovereigns; Damon decided Jocelin was no longer happy with Tollen's mediocre aristocrats and demanded something more cultivated, so he was hosting a soiree to get the Baird name further outside the city. Anyone in the law knew of the Bairds, but it just wasn't enough for Jocelin. He wouldn't be happy until he wasn't just passing judgment, but bills and laws that would ultimately ruin, or steal, someone's life. In Damon's opinion, the House of Sovereigns was full of blowhards. The perfect place for his father.

A presence stood by his side and Damon turned to find a young girl, not much older than himself. She was a face he knew from social events—High Commissioner Forrest's daughter—but he couldn't place her name. She was blond, petite, and had an air of daintiness about her like all high society women should; she was almost the perfect specimen, someone his parents might choose for him, but obviously not their first choice. He was already technically engaged to a girl he met only once.

"You looked a little lonely over here," said the girl. Green eyes, Forrest's daughter—_what's her name?_ She held two champagne flutes and offered one to him.

He wanted to reject it, but this wasn't just any party. This was a get-together of not only Tollen's elite, but Jacinto and Ephyra; these weren't little league names he was interacting with. Damon had a real chance to ruin his father's name—but not yet. He would bide his time for the perfect scandal. For now, he could play politics. He had actually become quite adept at it.

Damon stood straight and accepted the crystal, working up a charming smile but just falling short. It felt more like a pained grimace and he cursed himself for not practicing earlier.

The girl stepped closer, strands of her thick hair escaping from the tight knot on her head. "Your father has such a wonderful yacht. I've really enjoyed myself tonight, and my Papa is more than happy to mingle with your family. He says your father has been a big influence in his career."

_Jocelin probably paid Forrest's way to the top._ "High Commissioner Forrest, right?" Damon asked with feigned interest.

She smiled and held out her free hand. "I'm impressed. Not everyone in these circles seems to remember my Papa. I'm Stella, by the way."

Damon accepted her hand, kissing her knuckles lightly before releasing her. "Damon, but you probably already knew that. Nice to meet you, Stella." _See, I can be civil. Elinor would choke on her wine if she caught me making small talk._

"I may know a little bit about you, but maybe I'd like to know a little more." She smiled coyly and his instincts began to dissect the motion without him understanding why. It was simple self-preservation; even a blond little angel like her could be a dangerous spy.

"Did a little late night reading about me, huh?" he asked, matching her tone. "And what did you learn?"

"Not much, surprisingly. I've seen you in so many places and yet you don't seem to exist. Why is that? Are your parents"—she lowered her voice, leaning close for him to hear her over the wind and lazy waves below—"ashamed of you?"

That was the polite way of asking if he was a bastard child.

Damon laughed. He was surprised by her forwardness, but it was a welcome change of pace from the usual company he was forced to interact with at these parties.

She blushed and took a sip of her champagne before adding, "That was so rude of me—I'm sorry. It's just the—"

"No, don't apologize." He shook his head, his smile becoming forced now. "My parents are proud of my accomplishments in school but as for my political career … my old man gives me lessons, but he doesn't think I'm ready to step up. You probably know how that is." Truthfully, Jocelin had been trying to convince Damon to go to law school but he was already applying for colleges dedicated for engineering, ignoring his father's demands completely.

Stella smiled, encouraged. "No, not really. Papa says if I marry the right man, I won't have to work for anything in life. It sounds nice, but I think I would rather try a real career. Trophy wife just doesn't sound like me."

"And, if I may be so bold, what does sound like you?"

She tapped her finger against her bottom lip. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "I suppose a teaching position would be more suited for me. Imagine opening young minds to a whole world of information—knowledge they could barely imagine, yet you could help them understand. It's really something to see kids learn a new skill."

"Really?" _Of course a wanna-be humanitarian would find me._ "Do you volunteer somewhere?"

"Yes," she giggled, as if the information was scandalous. "But no one knows—Papa would have a conniption if he found out. I just don't want to be worthless like my mother; she's as pleased as an old, fat house cat to hang onto Papa's arm and do nothing. Not me. Oh, but now I'm rambling. I wanted to know more about you, not bore you with my own details."

Damon smiled politely, and this time he felt he had mastered the look without straining. He was tremendously bored with this girl already, but she seemed genuine enough, and it was better for his image if he was seen mingling instead of sulking by himself.

He spent an hour on the deck of the yacht trading information and making excuses for his parents. _Oh yes, they're great; we have family outings all the time. Just last week I drove my father's convertible down to the coast where the three of us had a small picnic._ He had a million lies stashed away, always at the ready during these soirees. He was the only son of the great Jocelin Baird; he had to be on his best behavior and sing his father's praises. It didn't bother him this time because he saw the affect it had on Stella; well, and the many glasses of wine he grabbed for her from the passing waitstaff.

It was after her fifth glass of wine—and his sixth—when she laid her hand on his arm and leaned heavily against him. "Hey, is there any way we can get some privacy around here? There are too many bodies out here now."

Sometime during the hour, most of the group had moved from the sheltered part of the deck to the outside, probably to clear their head of cigar smoke and alcohol. Damon took Stella's hand and led her inside, carefully guiding her down two flights of stairs. She giggled as she stumbled; he caught her, complaining how clumsy she was.

He expected the pool room to be empty by this time, and when he led her inside, the room was quiet and still. He thought it was redundant for a boat to have a pool, but no one swam in the ocean; it was unsanitary. Stella didn't seem to care. She slipped out of her sparkly heels, hiked up her gown, and sat on the edge of the pool, her legs in the water. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"That's more like it. I thought my toes would fall off if I had to wear these things one more minute!" she said, throwing the shoes aside.  
Damon stood beside her and rolled his eyes. "Your toes wouldn't fall off unless you contract necrotizing fasciitis. And if you do have it, kindly get your feet out of my pool water."

She laughed, loud and obnoxious. "Are you always such a buzz kill when you're drunk?"

"I'm not drunk," he argued. "I'm barely intoxicated." He was feeling the effects of the six glasses he'd drained like a parched man, desperate for a way to make this girl seem more interesting, but he could hold his alcohol. It just had a funny way of shortening his temper.

She tugged his pant leg. "Sit with me, Damon. It's nice closer to the water."

The smell of the chemicals was starting to make him feel sick, but he did as she asked.

He took off his shoes, socks, and even his suit jacket. He rolled up his pant legs before adding his feet to the cold water.

"It's really peaceful down here," she sighed. "I'm surprised we're the only ones who thought of it."

"Why?"

"Damon, please! This is almost twice as large as my own indoor pool, and who wouldn't want to swim in a pool on a yacht off the coast? It's kind of romantic—and scandalous. Anyone could have thought of skinny dipping."

"Seriously?" he asked. The idea made him extremely uncomfortable yet his mind focused on one word. _Scandal._

Stella cast him a challenging grin. "It's exhilarating, right? There's a party going on right above our heads; someone could catch us at any time."

He laughed, and it sounded forced and ugly to his ears. "You say it as if we're doing it right now. A proper young lady like yourself wouldn't dream of skinny dipping at a soiree."

"Wouldn't I?" she cooed. "Come on. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

It was the alcohol talking. Suddenly Damon was presented with a scenario any sixteen year old could only dream of. He was a man, and he was only human, but could he really take advantage of her?

_Whoa, who said anything about advantages? Get a grip, moron,_ he thought. He was smarter than this—oh, but the gossip it would inspire if the public knew Jocelin Baird's son was caught with an ambassador's daughter.

He spent too long thinking it over. Stella gasped and stood, pulling him up beside her. Begrudgingly, he stood.

"Don't tell me you've never been skinny dipping!" she balked. When he shook his head, her slender fingers immediately began loosening his tie. "You just strip down and jump in. It's nothing to be afraid of."

She threw his tie to the floor and moved to the buttons of his shirt. Internally, Damon warred with himself. It was the perfect opportunity—an anonymous leak, maybe some grainy pictures from the security camera—but she was a nice girl. Not to mention she was kind of drunk—okay, they were _both_ kind of drunk. He was assured he was too much of a gentleman to try anything. Her proximity and wandering hands were more than enough to make him uncomfortable; he couldn't imagine her naked. But what if she came on to him? For god's sake, she was _undressing_ him!

Stella opened his shirt, hands sliding down his chest, and he sucked in a breath as his stomach knotted.

She grinned. "You're kind of touchy, aren't you?"

His hands started to shake. He couldn't go through with this, but he couldn't see a way out now. Her fingers had found the button of his pants.

He summoned his usual bravado; his voice almost hoarse from the shock of this new contact. "You just have something about you, Stella. Maybe you cast a spell on me." _Damn it, that doesn't sound like a guy trying to escape._

She giggled, although she didn't sound convinced. "You're a strange one, Damon Baird, but you're undeniably cute."

When he stepped onto the yacht early in the evening, he wasn't expecting anyone to approach him. What he got was an enigma of a socialite, a whirlwind of emotions from just one girl.

And front page news the next day.


	19. Simple

Simple

I knew something was up when Control drafted me for a recon mission. Sure, it was really no big deal after the recons I'd attended with Delta, but Mathieson said this was a two-man squad type of job, and when I asked who I was paired up with, the line was mysteriously cut. It didn't bode well for my day.

I reported outside Vectes Naval Base at the requested time, and it was only then when I realized just how horrible things could get. It was supposed to be a simple mission, easy, but not now. The bane of my existence was back to haunt me.

"Ah, shit," I said, just loud enough for her to hear.

Alex Brand leaned against a Packhorse, smoking something she probably stole from the Pelruans. She waved me over with a viscous grin on her face. I steeled myself for an unpleasant conversation. Maybe it was a trick; maybe she was hanging out until someone else showed up. I was never so lucky.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my favorite bosom buddy," she said, pulling the hand-rolled cigarette from her mouth.

"No wonder Mathieson wouldn't say anything. Couldn't it have been anyone but you?"

"Who were you expecting, your buddies the war heroes? I'm not entirely happy about this either, but Hoffman wants some recon done and our plates just happened to be empty."

Alex was the last person I wanted to work with, especially on a scouting job. Neither of us was equipped to play secret agent, but she was a bit of a dead-eye with a Longshot. It counted for something—not much, but I wouldn't tell her that.

"Where's Mataki?" I asked. "This is more her thing. You could make it a ladies' day out, you know?"

"She's with Delta-One today." Alex rolled her eyes, taking another drag of her cigarette. "God, just suck it up, Princess. It's only a few hours."

A few hours with her was like a millennia in an imulsion lake. "Shit, I'd even take Mataki's hound over your ugly ass. Guess there's only enough room for one bitch today."

She threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with her boot, a smug little grin on her face. It was only as I crawled into the passenger's seat when I realized what I'd said. Before I could cover up my mistake, she pounced.

"Male dogs aren't bitches, idiot," she sneered. "Or are you referring to yourself?"

I resisted the urge to slam my face against the dashboard. One mistake. One tiny little mistake and she would lord it over my head for the next week. "Can we just get this over with?"

Her grin didn't disappear as she got behind the wheel, or as she drove us out of VNB along the west coast. Now her fun really began.  
There's a reason Alex doesn't drive anything. Riding with her is a bitch.

Five minutes in and I swear if I had any emotional attachment to my ass, I'd demand to drive—I couldn't feel anything from bouncing around. What I did have an investment in, however, was the truck, and I wasn't happy she seemed determined to tear it apart.

I complained about it once and she had made it her life goal to destroy tech whenever I was in earshot. It was just another way she tried to get under my skin, but I didn't fall for it anymore. I'd learned my lesson. My big mouth stayed shut.

I held onto the dashboard as we blazed across a short expanse of plain and soon we were under a tight canopy of trees on a dirt road the Pelruans created. Now Alex's speed became my biggest concern. The Pelruans had seen the Stranded once, months ago, and the path was obviously overgrown now. We could hit a root at any time and kiss the Packhorse goodbye.

"Could you slow down?" I asked against my better judgment.

"What's wrong? Is Princess's royal ass aching?"

"Of course not. It's made of steel—"

"From all the ass kickings you got as a kid," she laughed.

"But," I continued through grit teeth, "King Badass—that's me, in case you were wondering—would like to get there _alive._ And if you don't slow down, we'll end up nose-first in the camp. This is a recon. Covert, remember?"

She spared a moment to glance my way and rolled her eyes. "Come on, Baird. We both know why Hoffman chose us. We're rule breakers. We can strike out the Stranded population in a matter of hours and avoid regs. Hoffman won't even have paperwork to file."

Whoa. Okay, I hated Stranded with a passion—their fingerprints got all over my things—and I would kill them if I had to, but only if they forced me. The COG had standards. Rules of engagement: Don't shoot unless they shoot first. Apparently Alex had forgotten this.

"I don't think that's the point of this, Brand," I replied.

"These aren't _our_ Stranded. They're savages, criminals. I've put these bastards down before and I can do it again. Some Gears pause at shooting humans—not me. Today we're going to secure our safety."

There was real menace in her voice, something I'd never heard from her before. She seriously thought we were going to kill them. It'd be the logical answer—the easy answer, for sure—but Hoffman had always been honest with us. If he wanted us to shoot them like cattle, he would say so. Alex might have outranked me but I had to get a handle on this quick. Shit.

The first thing I would have done, if Alex was a normal woman, would be to ask if something happened, but there was the tricky part; she wasn't a normal woman. She didn't like to talk about feelings. A heart-to-heart would end with me nursing a black eye. Hell, maybe she'd veer into the nearest tree and we'd die. Not exactly the way I wanted to go. I was smarter than her; I could figure out a roundabout way to delay the cold-blooded executions of—well, they weren't all innocent, but they were unsuspecting. If I was going to kill anything, I at least wanted a chance of danger. Make it sporting, let them fight back.

_ And now I'm starting to sound like a psychopath. Great._

While my ass was in the air for the hundredth time, I took the chance to pull the map from my back satchel. I landed with a grunt and convinced myself to take my eyes off the road—_she won't crash the truck, she won't crash the truck_—and tried to make sense of the handwritten notes. This area was practically uncharted—another reason for this taxing mission—and I couldn't tell just how far off the grid we were; I'd been too busy trying to protect my ass from Alex's insane driving. My guess, we were about four kilometers away from the Stranded camp. That was close enough for my tastes.

"Alright, Brand, time to park it," I said. "Any closer and we could run into booby traps or they'll hear us coming and set up a welcome party."

She didn't answer, but the truck began to slow. I took that as a good sign. I pulled out a pencil and piece of scrap paper, retraced our route from VNB heading west, and filled in the appropriate grid on the spare paper. The camp was marked in a rough estimate on the grid from a single fly-over. Today we were going to figure out exactly where it was.

Alex brought the truck to a stop and pulled her Longshot out from behind the seat. "Try to keep us on the right path, Princess. We can't afford to lose the Packhorse."

"Oh, so now you care about our machinery." I stashed the papers and stepped out onto the overgrown track. I wasn't worried about losing the truck; I was worried about someone finding it, stripping it for parts and stealing the fuel. It had happened many times before, in more deserted areas than this. With Stranded around, you were never truly alone.

Alex slung her rifle over her shoulder with an unamused snort. She pulled out her shotgun, cracking it open and checking her rounds before snapping it closed. "Whatever. Just lead the way."

"The great Sergeant Brand is letting a little corporal like me take charge? Are you feeling okay?"

Her shotgun collided sharply against my back plate. The hit didn't hurt, but the strength behind it jostled me. "Get moving, Navigator."

I slid my Lancer into my hands for comfort and started east, hoping to hit the edge of the forest and not get lost. According to the Pelruans, there was a rise close enough to the camp to spy without being extremely visible. They also said the Stranded only used it as a defensive wall so we shouldn't expect resistance, but fuck that logic. If I were them, I'd have a look out position and a few traps. Stranded were crafty little shits. If they didn't take advantage of it, it'd be good news but I'd be a little disappointed.

At our quick pace, it didn't take long to find the edge of the trees or the rise. While Alex climbed ahead of me, I stopped to update my piece of scrap, accounting for the slight elevation of the cliff, and then followed up after her.

Greeting us at the top was a pillar of smoke spiraling above the trees. It came from the other side, in the camp I guessed, a sign of civilization. Alex's hands were tight around her shotgun, glaring at the dark cloud. Something was seriously wrong with her, but I wasn't willing to rock the boat. Yet. If she started taking potshots, I hoped my morality would get the better of me. We didn't need another war.

Five minutes later we were prone on the cliff edge, Alex spotting the crowd below through her scope. I had become her spotter and was on one knee to her left, close enough to a hedge if I needed to hide. With binoculars in hand, I watched her blind spots. The Stranded milled in their shanty town as if they were in Ephyra North, one of the capital's biggest malls. Marcus estimated the population at three-hundred, at least. I saw maybe a hundred-fifty, and most of them were women and children.

"The men must be out hunting," I said, panning towards the left end of their town. When I was told about the camp, I thought that's what they meant: a camp. But this really was more of a small city. It was kind of impressive.

"You're such a sexist pig," Alex sneered. "Look at the docks. They're out fishing or reconning near our own harbor."

"Like I said, hunting. Bringing home the fishy bacon for their women to filet. You know: gut it, clean it, and cook it."

"God, shut up, would you?"

Warning sirens blared in my head. If I could bother her this much, something was way off. Normally she would reciprocate, like at the beginning of this little field trip. Now there was something inside her that I could only recognize as still and cold. It wasn't like her, but why did I even care? She was Alex fucking Brand, poison to herself and everyone else around her. I wanted nothing to do with her issue but now my conscience was nipping at the back of my mind.

She was like me.

Before I had Cole or Delta, I was unstoppable. I'd thrown punches, taken some in return, and found every way possible to push buttons. I didn't think about the people around me. Honestly, I still only take certain people into account—but that's more than I ever imagined as a child. I never wanted, or even thought I'd have friends. I internalized all my shit, it became a bad attitude, and now I was seeing it in someone else. But I had a way to vent; I had Cole to talk to. Alex, as far as I knew, was a regular lone wolf.

Shit, shit, shit.

I tried to convince myself that I didn't care. She could be PMSing! But Cole's late night therapy sessions had rubbed off on me. I had to ask somehow.

"So, any reason for the dead critter up your ass?" I asked, setting the binoculars down. Not exactly the tact I was hoping for, but it would get the job done.

"Piss off," she hissed.

"You know, I'm really starting to miss Mataki and Sam. At least they pretend to be civil."

"You're going soft in your old age, Baird. Can't take a few insults?"

"Hey, you're no spring chicken, either. I'm just trying to help but if you don't wanna talk, I get it. I'll just be over here doing my job."

She pulled her face away from the scope to look at me. "You've been bitching at me all day. What the fuck is your problem?"

"_My_ problem? Lady, I'm not the one with a dead animal in my anal cavity!"

"I'm not afraid to shove you off this cliff."

A horn blared from below, reminding me of the point for this outing. Alex pressed herself flat against the ground and I moved closer to the hedge, binoculars already at my eyes. Boats began to appear near the docks.

I resisted the urge to ask Alex for the fifteenth time if her scope cast a glare. Why couldn't we make a little sniper hidey-hole? There were thick ledges on the face; we could have created a nest during the night and camped out. No, not her. She wasn't a real sniper like Granny. Alex preferred to be front and center, even with a Longshot.

The Stranded moored their boats and hauled nets and crates onto the dock before greeting their wives. Looked like a good catch—more than the Pelruans brought in. Several kids ran on the docks to find their families, bouncing around fishing nets and maybe asking what their dad caught today. It was all strangely domestic. Human.

One big guy stepped onto the docks and the other men crowded around him. That had to be Massy. Hoffman wanted more info on him—where he slept, what he ate, know thy enemy type of shit—to figure out the best way to negotiate. Hoffman wasn't afraid to put a round through some Stranded but Prescott wanted diplomacy in this new order. We had to make friends with our enemies.

"I've got a clear shot on the tall one," Alex whispered.

"Hell no," I hissed. "Don't even think about it, Brand. If you kill Massy, there's going to be more raids on Pelruan. They'll want revenge."

"And they can come get it. We'll just have to kill them."

"Damn it, listen to yourself!" I looked at her to find her smiling, cold and empty, her finger too close to the trigger for my comfort.

"Sound logic in my mind." With a sharp inhale, she held her breath.

I had a split second to decide—should I stop her or let all hell break loose? Fuck that. We'd been fighting for too long. I wanted my chance at peace and no snippy red-head was going to ruin it.

I grabbed her by the neck of her armor and, using what little leverage I had over her, pulled. A loud crack echoed in the air. Before she had the chance to yell or draw another weapon, I pushed her face against the ground and crawled on her back. She was tough, but she couldn't buck off the weight of a full set of armor. I kept my head down and hoped we were far enough away from the ledge that the shouts from below were just about locating the shot, not seeing two suspicious figures on the cliff. It wouldn't take them long to get up here.

Alex struggled weakly beneath me. "Get off me, you bastard! I had him—he was right there!"

"Shut up," I spat, "or you'll get us killed."

"I don't care anymore! They _deserve_ to die, Baird. You know and I know it."

"Well today really isn't the day for executions. How about we both shut up and get out of here alive?"

"We have to kill them. At least Massy! He can't get away with his crimes now—I won't let him."

As I listened to her huff against the grass, I tried to piece together her insane logic. We had just landed on this island so it wasn't like she had a personal score to settle.

"Alright, Brand, I'll bite. What the fuck is wrong with you and these Stranded?"

She hesitated. The quiet said everything—she was considering it. Shit, she was going to tell me. The ice queen was about to crack to the renowned jackass, and I wasn't sure I was ready for it.

"It's not fair," she said quietly. "It's not right that these people can torment Pelruan the way they do."

"I was a trust fund baby with a great life ahead of me—a bunch of gray assholes took that away. Guess what? Life's not fair. But the townspeople made do. The Stranded stopped bothering them."

"A woman told me this morning that her daughter was kidnapped by these fuckers. It was years ago, her daughter's back home, but she still has nightmares. You don't know what it's like, Baird. To have your security stripped away by a human being, by someone just like you, and to be so helpless. I do," she said, and her voice changed, maybe broke for a second. "I came from the baby farms—you know what they did there. I have a reason to fight. I promised that as long as I'm alive, I'd do everything in my power—_anything_—to make sure no one ever feels the way I did."

And just like that, I felt like shit. Everyone had their own demons but I thought Alex had left hers in the past; she did a convincing enough job. Now she just wanted to play superhero. It was a noble fantasy, but even she couldn't protect everyone. At one time I thought Alex was simple, easy enough to understand, but now I was really starting to see what made her tick. She wasn't entirely the bitch I thought she was; she wanted to help people, even if that meant killing. Damn.

I crawled off her back and she sat up, pushing her hair out of her reddening face. Was she crying? Shit, I didn't want to see her cry; I wouldn't be able to be mean to her. I looked away as she wiped the dirt from her face, and then moved back to her rifle still perched on a tripod near the ledge.

"They're hustling down there," she said. "We should probably check in with Control, see if they tried to raise our guys on the public channel."

She was going to act like it didn't happen. Fine, I could do that. In fact, I was_ happy_ to do that. "Or we could, you know, get the hell out of here."

She ignored me. "Control, this is Sergeant Brand. Has there been any news from our friends up north?"

My earpiece clicked instantly and Mathieson's harried voice replied, "Yes, actually. Massy thinks we're trying to assassinate him. Any idea why?"

"Got me, but I think we're done out here. Foxtrot-Two is returning to base."

"Negative. The colonel wanted you out there until—"

"We've been compromised, Control. We have the intel we need so we're coming back."

Mathieson was quiet and I used the time to head toward the ledge. Yeah, the Stranded were pissed. The women and kids had disappeared and a swarm of men, most of them with rifles, were on high alert.

"Roger that, Foxtrot-Two," Mathieson said, and then he was gone again.

Alex slid back from the cliff, pulling her rifle with her, and I followed. So that was it? We were gone for maybe an hour, definitely not enough time for a reconnaissance. I guess I couldn't complain. Alex would finally get out of my hair.

We packed up our equipment and carefully made our way back to the Packhorse. The Stranded probably wouldn't patrol this far out, but I wasn't taking chances. If there was a time I wished for comfortable shoes, it was now. The standard issue COG boots were not made for stealth and I was aware of every stomp between Alex and I. When the truck was back in view, and still intact, I relaxed.

As I slid into the passenger's side, I slumped against the seat with a sigh. Today was a complete failure, as I knew it would be. Hoffman had to be drunk when he assigned us on this mission. Whatever. We were done, I was still alive, and so I couldn't complain.

The cab was quiet for a measly five minutes when Alex said, "Not a word about today, got it?"

"I never share my failures, thanks," I replied. She cast me a scathing look that I easily ignored. "Of course I'm not going to say anything. It's not my place. If you want to share your skeletons with someone, that's your business; I'm not going to do it for you."

She made a sound that sounded like a strangled laugh. "Are we actually agreeing on something?" she asked with a smile.

"God, I hope not."

The truck picked up speed. "You really are going soft, Princess. I hope you realize that."

And because I was such a big-hearted pushover, I gave her the victory. "Yeah, yeah, just don't tell anyone, okay?"


	20. Prepared

Prepared

Six years of fighting and nothing had changed. We'd gained ground, we'd lost it, and more people died every day. I never kept it a secret that I hated war, but Fate was happy to rub its good friend Karma in my face and make me fight in this unending pissing contest.

Assholes.

I sat in the back of a Centaur with Cole while Lieutenant Kemyss drove us through East Timgad, Sergeant Nott riding shotgun. I wasn't sure what ass Kemyss had to kiss for his promotion, but it had to be a good one. The man was incompetent, unlike me. I had a promotion coming my way for two years; I had a feeling Kemyss was the one to swipe it.

Driving through East Timgad was not how I envisioned my day but Control had tasked us with the crappiest job they could find—crawl through Central Stranded Station and offer Prescott's sick joke of amnesty. Personally I believed if they wanted to join civilization, they would have done it by now. They were Stranded for a reason. They couldn't abandon their state only to be welcomed back with open arms and a weapon placed in their hands. It just didn't work that way.

It especially sucked to go through East Timgad. It had become infamous for being a Stranded hotspot; there were more camps here than anywhere else. Maybe they were drawn in by the scenic crumbling buildings or the beautiful yellow haze that was definitely a sign of imulsion pollution. None of that stopped the Stranded. They built fortresses and thrived in this shithole. The past patrols through here were often hassled by idiots on the street or firing from the roofs; today, however, the streets were empty.

Nott had a map spread across his lap as he directed Kemyss down disintegrating roads. He was starting to get restless—as was I. Centaurs didn't exactly have spacious windows to stare out and play I Spy; not unless you wanted a rocket to the face or something. Even if it made me bounce my legs with impatience—a trait I personally hated and was often scolded for—I preferred to keep my skin and, well, life.

"I say ten more minutes before we pack it in," I told Cole, and maybe it was loud enough for Nott to overhear. "The Stranded obviously moved on. Hell, I don't blame them. This place used to be booming with factories and all that pollution has to go somewhere. I'm telling you, this place is toxic."

"The civvies seem to be fine," Cole said with a shrug. "I met a seventy-six year old man from Timgad and he looked healthy as a baby."

"I really don't trust this place. I can't be the only one who thinks it's weird. This far in, they always gave us a warning."

"So why don't you go find our Stranded friends, Private?" Nott asked from the front seat.

"What do I look like—the frigging Bishop of Corren? I don't want anything to do with these assholes. Let's just call Control, tell them no one was home, and go."

Nott took us down another street in the direction of the river. The Centaur bounced and jolted with every hole in the road. It would have been nice if someone marked the maps with Stranded camps. Then we wouldn't have to suffer driving in circles.

"We're supposed to save who we can, Private," Nott continued. "That's our duty."

"In case you haven't noticed, they _renounced_ their citizenship," I replied. "Our 'duty' is to COG civilians, and even that's shaky most days."

"I think we found one, sir," Kemyss interrupted. Curious, I moved to kneel between the front seats to better see the monitor, the only window to the outside.

It was a Stranded camp, alright. They always chose areas they could barricade yet easily escape from; building along the river was terribly smart if they had boats. The front gate was a solid piece of sheet metal covered in graffiti that COG personnel weren't welcome. Watchtowers supported on rotten wooden beams were positioned on both sides. It was hard to tell on the monitor, but they looked empty.

"Something's not right," Nott said.

No shit. It didn't take a genius to figure out they had moved on, but the sergeant was always adamant about doing a job and getting it done right. He'd want to investigate.

"Private Baird, with me. Lieutenant, keep the engine running, and Private Cole, warm up the guns."

_ Shit. I hate when I'm right._ "Whoa, you're not actually going out there, are you?" I asked.

"Yes, and you're coming with me." He grabbed his Lancer and crawled past me to get to the hatch ladder. Cursing, I followed up after him. If I were leading this operation, we would have been done by now, but I decided to keep that bit of info to myself. Nott wasn't afraid to shoot when he was angry—which was often.

If we thought things were wrong from inside the Centaur, we had no idea how abnormal it really was. It was silent, unnaturally still. Stranded, like animals, had that uncanny ability to sense disaster. When birds didn't chirp and Stranded didn't shoot, there was trouble somewhere.

I gripped my Lancer with one hand and covered my mouth with the other. This place smelled like shit. I couldn't tell if it was just the imulsion or real human waste, but I didn't like it. Seemed too much like an omen for my tastes.

We approached the gate and Nott banged his fist against the sheet metal. "Anyone in there? This is Oscar-Four with the Coalition of Ordered Governments. We're here on behalf of Chairman Prescott to offer amnesty."

_ Nah, really? Now they'll never answer the door. 'Hello sirs, have you accepted Prescott's amnesty farce yet? It's a great way for the government to easily control or kill assholes like yourself! Join today!'_

Rolling my eyes, I walked away from Nott while he busied himself with yelling. Stranded camps, by default, always looked the same to me. Then again, I never cared to hang around one long enough to notice if one settlement used more wood or metal, or who suspended cars as traps to crush unwelcome guests. I did, however, take notice of something no human settlement should have.

"Hey, Cole," I said, finger pressed briefly against my ear to open the radio channel. "You wanna pan over towards the right, in front of the watchtower there?"

The turret made its distinctive whir as it swiveled behind me. "Sure thing, Baird," Cole replied, jolly as ever. "What's on your mind? Gonna blow their house down like—ah shit."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I said with a sigh. "Thanks, man." Turning to grab Nott's attention, I called, "Yo, Sarge! Come check this out. Either the Stranded made some changes to their decor or we've got a problem."

Nott joined me to stare up at the fortress. The watchtower had a row of pikes in front of it; on those pikes, human heads. Nott grimaced.

"A warning to other camps or are those our men?" he asked.

"Got me. I can't even make out the details to tell you how long they've been up there."

"Damn savages."

"Does this mean we can go now?"

Suddenly the gate clanged, hidden gears engaging, and began to lift. I pulled up my Lancer, ready for something to shoot, but there was no one; the wide gap was empty. There should have been a nice welcoming committee. This entire situation had _FUCKED_ written all over, and my instincts were honed enough to always be right. Okay, almost always.

Nott switched his Lancer off safety and motioned me to follow. I grabbed his shoulder before he could move.

"Hang on, are we really going to walk into this trap? Sir, something's been off all day. There's no way there are Stranded inside."

"We have a duty to investigate," he replied, shrugging me off. "Move out."

It was always the same thing—duty, duty, duty. Why couldn't Command give me one sergeant that didn't care about the same old crap?

Nott charged ahead as I tried to remember urban op procedures. The compound was a maze of walls and buildings. Stranded could be hiding in any crevice—or on the roofs. I aimed my Lancer high, scanning the rooftops. No reflections from scopes, no little shifts of movement. It was creeping me out.

"I'm telling you, sir, there's something _really_ wrong here," I said. He ignored me.

The Stranded here had created a defensible city. Savages or not, I had to give them credit. It looked like they had claimed two apartment complexes and effectively expanded the top of their wall by covering the gaps between buildings with iron beams and sheets of metal. I could only imagine the weeks and amount of work it took to put it up. So where were the ingenious bastards?

I followed Nott to what looked like the center of town. They had made a nice courtyard where they grew their crops. The tomatoes looked great—cabbages, not so much. They were trampled into the dirt and beside them, we found the Stranded.

Nott cursed; I couldn't bring myself to feel the same. It was disgusting to stack bodies but the killers got the effect they wanted. I didn't feel sorry, just sick. What made it worse was that it was a pile of women and children of different ages.

Well, at least we knew where the smell came from.

Nott crouched beside the pile and bowed his head, crossing himself slowly. I didn't even know he was religious; the gesture made me uncomfortable. What was left to pray for in this world? When he looked up, he asked, "Where are the men?"

"Drawn away and killed?" I guessed. I could see the men going to battle, leaving the women to hold down the fort. What they didn't know was that the battle was a distraction to enter the camp.

"Or lying somewhere else in town." He touched a gory arm, turning it one way then the other with some difficulty. "Claw marks."

My heart began to pound. I didn't give a crap about the tears on her skin—it was the stiffness of it. "Try closing her fingers."

It took some strength but they moved.

I studied her arm more carefully, hoping her head was sticking out somewhere that I could get a better guess. I wasn't good with death but I'd studied some medical texts when I was younger; the signs were still clear in my mind. "Rigor—look, her skin is turning blue. This is fresh, maybe a day? Whoever killed them could still be around here. We gotta go, sir. I don't want to join the pile."

"Calm down, Private," he said as he stood. He radioed into Control as if we weren't standing in front of a major threat. "Mahoney, this is Oscar-Four. We're at the Stranded camp in grid two by the river. We might have—"

Movement in the sky caught my attention as a gurgling scream crawled down my spine. Nemacysts, here? Damn it, I told him!

"Say again, Oscar-Four." The CIC officer's voice crackled in my ear. We were rapidly losing comms as seeders threw their spawn into the air. "What happened?"

"It's an ambush!"

We sprinted, retracing our steps through the settlement, to find the gate. Knowing Stranded, there would be another exit somewhere but it'd be hidden. We didn't have time for secret entrances. We had to leave _now._

My radio briefly came to life. "The gate's—is every—respond."

"Kemyss, we're coming back," Nott yelled into the radio. "We might have company."

The ground trembled. We couldn't afford to get pinned down now; I wasn't even sure if we were going in the right direction, but our surroundings didn't offer much for protection. We turned another corner and at the end of the alley was my own worst nightmare. They had been named berserkers by the squads lucky enough to survive them.

"What the hell is that?" Nott asked, his voice loud enough in my head to wake the dead—or draw unwanted attention.

The berserker that had been minding her own business snapped her head up at his voice. I quickly searched for a watchtower over the wall, using them as a compass, and shoved him down another alley. The berserker charged past us. Nott's face turned bone white at her scream.

"Introductions later," I said, out of breath and trying to keep a leash on my panic. The tremors hadn't let up. Where were the E-Holes coming up? "She's a real nice lady, just a bit homicidal. Come on, we gotta find the way out."

He closed his eyes for a second and when they opened again, he was back into his sergeant persona. Gears weren't allowed to deal with fear on the field; it compromised the operation. We just had to hold it until later, when we could collapse in our bunk and suffer the nightmares.

The berserker huffed outside our hiding spot, but maybe Nott realized they hunted mostly by sound—oh, she could sniff us out at any moment, but as long as Blind Bessie kept hunting further down the alley, we could make it.

We slipped out behind her and crossed the alley to another small corridor, back toward the gate. I could hear the Centaur's guns booming amidst Locust screams and was grateful to be in the clear. Sandwiched between two buildings, we were prime targets. There was nowhere to hide or take cover. As long as Cole kept up the heat, we would be fine. And if we brought Blind Bessie to the front, the Centaur could punch a hole in her. Maybe.

As we stepped back into the main walkway—strangely deserted of grubs—we ran into a different problem.

The gate was shut.

The Centaur's main cannon fired just outside, the metal sheet trembling with the force. The berserker screamed from behind us as she crashed through walls, but she couldn't yet pinpoint the direction of the noise with the echo. I almost wanted to tell Cole to stop firing until we found our way out. With another shot, the berserker came closer. I glanced behind to see some buildings sag as she carved her path toward us. If she could knock out the foundation of a building, I'd hate to know what she could do to a human. I didn't plan to find out.

"The gate controls. We have to find the controls," I muttered. I knew Nott didn't have a clue. Talking to myself always helped me think better, but damn if I understood Stranded. The controls could be underground for all I knew.

"We don't have time to raise the gate, Baird."

"And what are you going to do? Make smoke signals for Cole to blast it? I'm sure they're in the watchtower—think about it, someone's normally up there, they decide who comes and goes. Just trust me on this."

Blind Bessie punched through the final building and stood ten meters away in the clearing. She didn't stand around, though. She stomped back and forth, every other step bringing her closer. I held up my hand, hoping Nott stayed still and praying my bladder would hold. Today was _definitely_ not a good day to drink half my canteen.

"Alright, Baird," he hissed, eyes trained on the huge grub, "what is that thing and how do we kill it?"

"It's a berserker. I've only seen one other before so I don't really know _how_ to kill it."

"What?"

The berserker edged closer. I glanced behind me, one eye on her and the other on my retreat toward the tower. "Just shut up. I'm going to take my chances and climb the tower, so cover me."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do? You're the self-glorified grub genius."

"And you're the meatbag with an eagle on his chest, Sergeant. Keep her attention."

I moved as Cole fired another shot, scurrying up the ladder as fast as my idiotic boots would let me climb. _Shit, who's bright idea was it to put sandbags on a soldier's feet?_ Below me, the berserker was getting restless. With a scream, she charged and slammed into the gate. I thought she might break through and give us an easy way out, but the Stranded had found some good stuff. She left a hell of a dent.

On the front wall of the watchtower was a hand crank with a rope attached. It lead off to the left, just inside the wall. Huh, so that's how the grubs did it; I didn't claim they were idiots, there was definitely some sentience there, but now I really hated them. I grabbed the crank and pulled, turning as fast as the rusted thing would go. The gate slowly began to lift.

"Baird!" Nott called. I could see him just over the edge of the platform; he was waving his hands wildly, shouting something, but it was lost over Blind Bessie's shrill cry.

And that's when the situation plummeted into the shit.

A nemacyst exploded on the roof. The force knocked me onto my chest and I covered my head as the tower shook and the top collapsed around me. Then the floor slid out from underneath me. I grabbed for a support plank; another from the roof crushed my right hand. Without so much as a gasp, I plummeted towards the ground—no, straight for the berserker.

My chest plate slapped against her back and she screamed, flailing her meaty arms. When I finally hit the ground at her feet, I was in too much pain to even think about being flattened but adrenaline coursed through my veins and knew what to do. I rolled out of her way as she tore through what remained of the tower.

Nott was suddenly at my side, pulling me to my feet. My legs didn't cooperate for a full three seconds. He was saying something again; my head was too crowded by a persistent buzz to comprehend him. _I could have died. If not by the roof, Blind Bessie could have easily stomped me into mush. Oh god. I could have died._

I stumbled after Nott to find the gate was high enough to crawl under. He went first. I took a moment to catch my breath before following; my hand touched something wet on the other side. Shit, we were crawling through blood and grub innards. At least Cole had gotten them all.

The Centaur was where we'd left it and Nott made a mad dash. I wasn't so lucky. Drills and adrenaline told me I was okay, but holy shit, when did the world start shaking like this? _I'm not going to collapse. There's a berserker behind me. Come on, Baird, prove your bitch of a mother wrong. You can do better than this._

I rose to my knees. Using my good hand, I pushed to my feet and stayed upright, but the colors of the Centaur began to bleed into the sky and ground. _Move your feet, dumbass. You can collapse inside the tank._

It took maybe all of five seconds but time seemed to stretch on as I forced my legs to move the few meters to the Centaur.

"Baird! Come on, baby, gotta move faster than that!" Cole called, his voice slightly fuzzy. "Your ex-girlfriend sounds pissed in there."

"I might've said some less than pleasant things to her," I mumbled as I hobbled up to the Centaur. An arm slipped under both of mine and Nott supported me as I climbed the step. Cole grabbed my bad hand, hoisting me up as I grit my teeth against the daggers racing down my arm. He ducked down into the hatch and I followed after him; Nott came in close behind me.

"Get us out of here, Kemyss!" he said before he even touched the floor. "I don't want to know what a berserker can do to a tank."

I was still on the floor when the Centaur jolted; Cole grabbed my shoulders before I could slam into the far wall as Kemyss hit the gas. When it leveled out, I took my seat beside Cole and pulled off my glove with some difficulty. Shit, it was swelling already. It was hard to see in the dim lights of the tank, but it was obvious my hand would have a hell of a bruise. Just as long as it wasn't broken—sprained, I could handle, but a broken hand wouldn't do a technical man like myself any good.

"You okay, man? You got blood on your face," Cole said.

I was more concerned with my hand. Trying to flex it produced only numbing pain. "I'll be fine. Gotta get a doctor to look at this, though. A plank smashed it pretty good and I might've fallen on it."

"Private, I owe you an apology," Nott said, kneeling between the front seats as the Centaur bounced over the uneven roads. His face was covered in sweat, he was still trying to catch his breath, and all I could wonder was if I looked half as bad.

"What for, sir?" I asked.

"For arguing with Command to take you off my squad. You proved you've got some balls for a rich kid."

I sneered but was in no mood to feel pissed he'd tried to get rid of me. Yeah, it stung. I'd take it out on him later. "You so need me."

He chuckled and finally took his seat. "Even so, I'm stuck with you. Cole, I don't know how you've put up with him for so long."

"He takes some getting used to, but he's the kind of guy you want on your side, sir. He's always prepared for the worst." Cole slapped my back with less strength than usual. Shit, I _had_ to look a mess.

Unfortunately there was no preparing for anything in this war. The best I could do was keep my head above water, let adrenaline sweep me into the action, and pray I didn't get trampled by a berserker. Any day I was still alive was a good day in my books.


End file.
